


There Is Light

by Oboeist3



Category: Wander Over Yonder
Genre: Alluded to Self-Harm, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentally Ill Character(s), Nightmares and Flashbacks Galore, Other, human!AU, mentions of various minor characters, passive-aggressive nasa employees AU, peepers is v messed up and im not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 73,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of Captain Calvin "Peepers" Johnson has never been an easy one. An Oscar-nominated tearjerker of a movie it would be, he figures. But end credits have rolled, actors are off-set, but he's still here, trying to survive being a civilian again. From a nosy therapist to lazy coworkers to an insufferable, if hot, new guy at the gym, it's certainly trying. But he'll make it. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Logdate 27.5

The only good thing about going to the gym after waking up in a cold sweat at one in the morning is that no one looks at you weird. After these last few weeks in Houston, that was something Captain Calvin "Peepers" Johnson can appreciate. It's mechanical by this point, how he slips into his only pair of non-heeled sneakers, some soccer shorts, and a ratty t-shirt with his squadron on it. 'Former squadron.' he reminds himself with a sigh.  
  
He doesn't take a shower in his bathroom, there's too many sharp things, and he can't trust himself around them. Not now, when the only witness is silver moonlight. He's got enough fucking scars. So he trots down the stairs, four flights of them, because the elevator makes dings with each level and it's terrible, and pushes the door into the apartment complex's gym.  
  
It's not much really. Some weights, a few treadmills and bikes, a lone punching bag. But it's enough to blow off steam, to forget the images still lurking just under his eyelid.  
  
_Dirt in blood, oozing so slowly that little particles are floating like undissolved grains of sugar in coffee. But he's smiling at him, smiling because -_  
  
Peepers grits his teeth and stiffly walks over to the punching bag. It's better somehow, to feel the weight of it against his curled fingers, toughening the already calloused skin. He's best with a gun, but he's stopped shooting after coming back. It didn't feel right, in civilian life.  
  
With each punch, he feels some of the stress ease from his shoulders, fall off him like wind-blown leaves. He doesn't want to stop, doesn't have to this time, because there's no concerned mother to tentatively tell him his knuckles are bleeding. As if that's not the point.  
  
Of course he isn't that lucky. There's a gentle beep as the door opens, and in walks a monster. It's only the training that keeps Peepers from screaming, and he automatically marks the potential threat.  
  
Male. Over six feet tall, well over. Wearing a black and red hoodie, Nike shorts, and black tennis shoes. Latinx of some kind, he thinks. Face tattoo, white ink artful but imposing, in the shape of a skull, but doesn't hide the bags under his brown eyes, so dark they seem black. Majorly hot.  
  
That last ones more of an afterthought though.  
  
He nods at Peepers in the usual way guys do at the gym, or used to, before they just stared. The eyepatch didn't help much, but it's become his norm after so many bad encounters. He blinks hard when he realizes he **isn't** wearing his patch, slapping a hand over his defective eye.  
  
But skull-face doesn't seem to care, sticking headphones in his ear and gently humming as he easily picks up the light weights, warming up. A couple minutes pass, and he moves over to the bench, cursing a little when his headphones get wrapped around the end of a weight. It's at this point he does seem to notice Peepers, who hasn't stopped staring, popping out one bud and looking at him quizzically.  
  
"Were you planning on using this or whatever?"  
  
By the time the last word rings out, Peepers is already sprinting out the door, making it clang loudly.  
  
"Weirdo." the guy mutters, and sticks the earbud back in.

* * *

Peepers is breathing hard when he arrives at the stairwell, not from exhaustion, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He hadn't freaked out. He saw him, full blown, at perhaps the worst time, but he didn't care. And he's **hot**.

  
"Oh no. Don't you dare do it, Cal." he mutters, chiding himself. He probably hadn't been able to see from that distance was all, and besides, after that first meeting, how did he have any chance of casually asking him out for coffee? Not to mention the alarming reality that he lives in Houston now, which on its own isn't so bad but is buried in the hellish Deep South. Which can be a hell of a lot scarier than Iraq for a gay man.  
  
'Fuck it. I'm going to bed.' he thinks numbly, the exhaustion of cumulative lack of sleep starting to get to him. He trudges up the stairs, unlocks his apartment, and flops unceremoniously into bed. He shucks off his shoes at least, but doesn't manage to crawl under the covers before he's out cold.  


* * *

The next morning he awakes to his phone alarm beeping, reminding him of both his need to be up and his meeting with his therapist. Peepers groans, not because he's tired, not any more than usual anyway, but because he has to deal with Wander.  
  
Dr. Iviticus Albert, known to most as Wander, though some of the older people called them Tumbleweed, was one of the oddest people Peepers had ever known. They wore ugly, mismatched clothes, carried around a big green purse, and were almost inhumanly positive. Their reframing skills were legendary, and they managed to be charming and infuriating at the same time.  
  
He showers, dresses, eats breakfast robotically. Ties his eyepatch on with three different knots, just in case, and walks the few blocks to their office. It's a cozy place, somehow managing rustic in the middle of the city. It has bright colors everywhere and pictures tacked to the wall with tape. Wander mostly works with kids, but also has a knack for tough cases.  
  
Hence why Peepers is one of their patients.  
  
He's only in the waiting room for a minute before their head pops out, grinning wildly, like it means the world for them to see him. It might, actually. For a shrink, they're pretty much a nut.  
  
"Calvin! Great to see you! You signed the sheet, didn't ya?" they ask, and he nods. Wander is one of the few people that doesn't use his nickname. They love nicknames, but feel this one hits a little close to home. Maybe it does.  
  
"Okey dokey! Then come on in, Cal-drop." they say with a pop, going into their office. Peepers follows, closing the door behind them with a click. They're already sprawled in a bean-bag chair, wearing that weird fuzzy sweater that matches their hair again. They've painted their nails too, bright green with little yellow stars, just like -  
  
Peepers pulls out a proper chair, trying to sit vaguely across from them.  
  
"Sooo, what's new in Cal-village, huh?" they ask, resting their chin on their hands. They look perfectly ridiculous, and not at all professional. Still, he answers, stiff and formal.  
  
"Nothing. Same as last time."  
  
"The nightmares?" they ask carefully, and he nods, biting his cheek. "Every night?" Another nod.  
  
"The meds aren't doing anything?"  
  
He hesitates, not sure how to explain he hasn't been taking the little blue pills like he's supposed to. That every time he sees them on his kitchen counter he feels guilty. Guilty that he's broken enough to need them.  
  
"I-I keep forgetting to take them." he lies, and Wander hums, but there's a shrewdness in their eyes, the reason Peepers is still really here. Because even though they're overly cheery, too optimistic, give simple answers to complicated questions, they **get** him. The first day they had said they helped because they knew what it was to be helpless. And so does he, even if he doesn't want to admit it.  
  
"I see. Try getting a pill case, one with each day of the week on it. That might help. You like structure. If you still keep 'forgetting', you don't have to use them. But I think you should try. Especially if you're still not up for -"  
  
"No!" he says, shuddering at the mere thought. He doesn't think, no, he knows he can't take exposure therapy. He's haunted enough.  
  
"Ok." they say gently. "We'll wait until you're ready. But a word of advice, person-to-person. You can't outrun your problems, or your past. Believe me, I tried." they say, plucking a loose thread from the sweater.  
  
"It's not running." he says, before he can check the words. "It's grieving." he says. A shit version without any of the proper steps, but the admittance brightens Wander's face, so whatever.  
  
"I see." they say, looking at their watch. "Good Lord Almighty! Well our time does appear to have flown right by, Calvin. Anything else you'd like to say?"  
  
"No, xir."  
  
"No need to be so formal~! Still, it is awful gentlemanly of you, and I do appreciate it. Oh! That reminds me: did you meet someone? You've had a, well, wandering look this whole time." they say, light and sweet.  
  
Peepers blushes, his mind going back to last night, but pushes it away as nothing. Hope is for people like Wander, people who have vision. He's a tired, broken veteran lost in the real world.  
  
"Not really." he says flatly, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! If you're new to the There is Light (TIL) Universe, first of all, welcome! Second, there are some spinoffs/extras that are totally optional but help develop the characters a little more in the later part of the fic. The best reading order (as of last update) is as follows:
> 
> TIL Chap 1-29  
> Scarborough Fair   
> Light Up a Spark   
> TIL Chap 30-33  
> Capture the Light   
> TIL Chap 34


	2. When the Moon Found the Sun

Peepers gets a note from the front desk, even though he already informed his supervisor over both email and phone. He wouldn't put it past Wong to have completely forgotten, and he would prefer something solid in his attendance record.  
  
Mano Wong is the embodiment of both sides of California, it's brilliance and complete lack of structure. Top of his class, long-time SETI member, bright and with a fair amount of wit. But he also has dyed blonde hair, tells exaggerated stories of 'nights out' with his 'bros' at 'totally tubular parties', and has been known to take a six pack with him on his observatory nights. Peepers loathes him.  
  
Of course, if there was any part of NASA you could get away with slacking off in, it's exoplanet observation.  
  
After the stress and trauma of what led Peepers to leave the Marines, it's no wonder that he was advised to dust off his Physics degree and Astronomy minor and loop around the iron triangle. He doesn't mind that, doesn't even mind the work he's in. Finding a suitable home away from home for humanity, or any other intelligent life for that matter, is no small thing. But even though science is the future, and the future is now, searching for exoplanets is basically glorified stargazing. Lots of hours of watching and recording, analyzed in the otherwise useless day. There's more computers now, less manual fiddling, but the concept remains the same.  
  
As a result of this, the 'E.T. Unit', as they were playfully known, tended to accumulate the young and desperate. Not yet qualified for mission control or experienced enough for R&D, they did their time. Some enjoyed it, though rarely enough to stay. They did their jobs well enough, but not an inch more.  
  
There were a couple of other vets too, though most had shed the label of it, speaking of their experiences as fond memories, horror lost to time. Of course, the passionate 'great-things-are-out-there' types still had their role, keeping the department from falling to pieces. But they were the minority, frustrated shepherds trying to keep the sheep at least looking **up!**  
  
Peepers understands that feeling better than most. So he does his job, logs his hours, follows the rules. He eats lunch alone, and only talks when spoken to. People soon find doing observation with him is like rooming with a crabby brick wall, criticized constantly, never praised and no small talk.  
  
He does most of his hours alone.  
  


* * *

  
The drive is still a nightmare, even with the morning rush whizzing the opposite direction. Peepers is convinced most of the other drivers are tourists, considering how shit at this they are. Eventually though, he makes it, navigating away from the public side of the Johnson Space Center and into the guts. He at least gets to park close to the building, hanging the little blue tag from his back mirror.  
  
It's obnoxiously cold inside, AC cranked to the max to ward off the egg-boiling outside, and he regrets not bringing a sweater. Oh well. He'll get used to it.  
  
He swipes his ID at the door by a scale replica of a rover, Spirit, maybe even Curiosity. Their building is pretty new. On the other side it's lined with cubicles and the occasional office, looking like any other office building in the world.  
  
At the end of the hall is a more impressive looking door, that's Wong's office, and he walks towards it. The few employees he passes in the hall avert their eyes at his approach, ignoring his trained nod of acknowledgement. He pushes down the tight feeling it leaves in his chest, better than staring at least.  
  
He knocks three times on the door before receiving a noise he counts as affirmative. He opens the door and sees Wong in his usual muscle shirt and neon pants combo, fake shark tooth necklace around his neck.  He's leaning against the front of his desk, coffee mug in one hand, cell phone in the other.  
  
"Oh hey there C.P. What's hanging?"  
  
Peepers resists the urge, more of an underlying force really, to punch his teeth in, instead passing him the note.  
  
"My doctor's note for the record."  
  
"Oh yea. Cool, I guess." he says, shrugging and tossing it onto the mess that is his desk, most likely never to be seen again. "So...late night?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
It takes Peepers longer than he'd care to admit to figure out the innuendo, and he scowls. "Not with company." he hisses through clenched teeth.  
  
"Bummer." Wong declares, taking a big gulp of coffee. "Though if you need a night out, I could get some chump to cover your shift. You've been clocking serious overtime anyway."  
  
This statement is actually true, he has been more than his allotted nights at the observatory, if only to keep from sleeping. No nightmares lurk in the night sky. It's nice actually. Reminds him of the nights in Iraq, being able to see into the cosmos, not having to worry about death for a few minutes.  
  
"No thank you." he says, though the last two words pain him to say to Wong.  
  
"I mean it, Peepers! You're too uptight!" he says with a laugh, revealing bright white teeth with sharp edges. A hand slaps down on his shoulder, resting there with an ease he has no business having. Touchy-feely creep.

"There's no war here." There's a ring of something genuine in the words, hidden like an ace in a card game.

  
"Not for you." Peepers says, though maybe not quite as coldly as normal. "I'll send my reports by five at the latest."  
  


* * *

  
This day passes much like any other in the last month. He goes to his cubicle, the one in the corner, with the empty one next to it, and starts working.  
  
What Peepers specifically does involves a lot of long words and intricate understanding of chromatography, but in layman's terms, he looks for patterns. It's kind of what humans are great at, really. He looks for slight dips in light indicative of something crossing a star's path, or if they've already got a planet in sight, he checks out the atmosphere composition. He sometimes double-checks others' work, since he's good at noticing details. Other times he's stuck just naming the things, making sure the computer didn't use the same string of numbers and letters for different exoplanets.  
  
No matter what branch of work he does, it all has an order to it, a rationality that makes him feel blissful. It's the kind of stuff you can melt into, like algebra, though he's always limited by his body's complaining. Hunger, mostly. He keeps snacks in the third drawer on his desk and snatches up a granola bar when his stomach grumbles too loud.  
  
His lunch is in the break room fridge, a whole week's worth of meals labeled with day and his name in big capital letters. Peepers isn't a vegetarian, but the inefficiency of meat-to-calories and the nuisance of storing it makes most of the meals a base of rice, some alternative protein, and a layer of cheese because well...cheese.  
  
He munches on it as he checks the news, sticking to the happier stories because Wander said he should. He can't help but click international news for a few minutes though, scanning for familiar names. Today he's lucky. Nobody is dead.  
  
Nobody new, at least.  
  
The afternoon passes in a pleasant blur of numbers, finished with the annoying but important emails to Wong. He clocks out at five sharp, ready to go home and make some proper dinner before his turn at the observatory at eight.  
  
When Peepers goes out to his car though, a squat, fuel-saving thing, he finds his least favorite Cali dudebro next to it, waiting.  
  
"Is something the matter, Wong?" Not even seniority earns that asshole a sir.  
  
"Nah, your work's great as always." he says, though it doesn't seem like much a compliment from him. "I'm just telling you your shift's been covered. You've got the night off."  
  
"Really." he says, eye narrowed in suspicion. "Who's taking over? They should have last time's information."  
  
"Already do."  
  
"You emailed it to them?" he says, carefully searching for any hint of untruth.  
  
"Nope. You did."  
  
Peepers blinks in surprise, trying to remember. Was he forgetting things? He hadn't had a proper night's sleep since he got back. After a month, maybe it was showing.  
  
"The only person I email my reports to is you." he says cautiously, and gets a toothy grin and thumbs up for his trouble.  
  
" _ **You're** _ covering my shift?! Why? You're management!" he says, cracking a little in his professional facade. It was going to happen. He'd always had more anger than he could deal with.  
  
"Can't let my bro work himself to death! Seriously man, lately it's looking like the party's owning **you**. Not cool, dude. Just take the night off, 'ight"?" he says with a conspiratorial wink. "See you on the flip side, nerd." he says, blowing a kiss at him and walking over to his own atrocity of a vehicle, covered in bumper stickers and a sound system that makes the ground hum as he drives off.  
  
"We work at NASA, asshole!" he shouts to open air, even though he's long gone. It makes him feel better, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like peepers and mark watney would get along v well


	3. The Second Time Around

Peepers doesn't stand in the parking lot long, as even with the sun bleeding into the horizon, the air still sizzles with heat like a fresh bag of popcorn. He does grumble about Wong and his idiocy all through the ride home, which alleviates some of the stress curled in his stomach.  
  
Once at his apartment he whips up dinner, noodles and meatballs and a whole roll of mini biscuits, because he's fucking earned it. He cleans up what little clutter has accumulated since yesterday's sweep, and with time still on the clock, reorganizes his bookshelf by genre. It mostly consists of dollar-rack romances and military strategy books, as well as an entire shelf of Mark Zubrin and Carl Sagan novels.  
  
By that point everything has finished cooking, and as he dishes up and eats he pulls out a well-worn copy of Romeo and Julian. It's an atrocity to good writing; full of clichés, plot holes, and an self-insert of a protagonist. It's one of Peepers' favorites.  
  
However he doesn't even make it to the first cartoonishly inaccurate sex scene (no one is that flexible and also where is the LUBE?), before his mind buzzes angrily from perceived inactivity, pulling up memories to fill the spaces.  
  


* * *

_Things are peaceful for once at the base, and Calvin isn't sure he wants to know why. The soldiers' work was done for the day, but instead of being spread out across the base, they were piling up in the mess hall, whispering excitedly as they went._  
  
_Eventually the captain finds himself too curious to resist, pushing through the throng of people until he sees the reason. A birthday cake, hastily frosted, is placed before a red-haired recruit, who's doing his best not to cry._  
  
_"Aw shucks, y'all! You didn't have to go to all this trouble." he says, rubbing the back of his neck._  
  
_"Of course we did!" says Moose, a towering man whose real name they'd all long forgotten._  
  
_"It's not every day your boy turns twenty-one!" says another soldier._  
  
_"Yea, now you'll actually be legally drinking all that booze!"_  
  
_The entire group erupts into laughter, even though birthday boy is blushing beet red at the remark. He looks around, a little overwhelmed, and smiles when he sees Calvin._  
  
_"Captain! I didn't think you'd come!"_  
  
_Even now he feels guilty as all eyes fall on him, a strict hush as they hope and pray he's not here to stop them. He had, in the past, when it got in the way of duty. But for tonight, there's no such problem._  
  
_"Wouldn't miss it." he says, and everyone cheers._  
  
_In the next couple minutes, the cake is sliced, a few of the closer friends give presents, party games started, poker played for cigarettes. All the while the little red-head beams, never happier in his life._  
  
_But all Peepers can see, looking back through his own eyes, is dirt and blood and shrapnel, a smile happy for all the wrong reasons._  
  
_All he can remember is there isn't a twenty-second._

* * *

There are tears soaking into the pages of the book, leaving little wrinkly spots over the words. He sighs and closes it, placing it on the coffee table.

The only good thing about crying while living alone is that no one can judge you.  
  
They continue as he washes the dishes, scrubbing at the clinging sauce until his pressure makes the ceramic bowl crack and splinter. The pieces fall to the bottom of the sink, sharp edges pointed up like the prick of a spinning wheel. How easy would it be to play Sleeping Beauty?  
  
Peepers backs away before he can be too tempted, yanking the water off. His hands are shaking, blurry in front of his waterlogged eye.  
  
He needs a distraction. Something to keep his brain from thinking things he doesn't want, something that isn't hurting himself. He flips through all those coping mechanisms Wander kept going on and on about, crafting and exercising and - oh hell it was stupid but he doesn't have anything better right now.  
  
Peepers grabs a throw pillow from the couch, presses it to his face, and screams. He screams and screams until he's out of self-loathing and pain and anger and guilt, until all he's left with is extreme exhaustion.  
  
Sleep is a terrible idea, considering, but it's all he's got.  
  
He falls back into routine, blissful and steadying, putting on pajamas and brushing his teeth and grabbing a glass of water for the morning, (or more likely midnight.) As he's doing so, he sees the bottle again, the little blue pills taunting him.  
  
_You really are broken, aren't you?_  
  
_Can't even manage a night off._  
  
_Pathetic._  
  
Peepers scowls, wishing, not for the first time, that he could turn off his own brain. He pushes through the intrusive thoughts, popping one of the pills in his mouth, because if he **was** going to take Wander's advice, why not go all in? Maybe now he could actually make it to sunlight. Might as well hope.  
  


* * *

Hope doesn't do jack-shit.  
  
Peepers wakes up at three am with long scratches on his thighs, paper-thin edges sticking up like white flags of surrender. He sighs heavily, reaching for the water on the bedside table and gulping it, as if he can drown the images, the ringing of his ears from long gone explosions. He picks the remaining skin off, noticing with bleak satisfaction that they at least weren't  bleeding.  
  
They do sting like hell though, even after he smears Neosporin on them, which makes him feel weirdly euphoric. Only the ends of them peek out of his exercise shorts, and he makes a mental note to wear capris tomorrow, or today, he supposed.  
  
When he trudges down the four flights of stairs to the gym, he finds it already occupied.  
  
Skull-face is sitting on the bench, sweat glistening on his brow and drinking out of a water bottle. He's wearing a tank top this time, muscled arms completely on display and holy shit there's more tattoos. Same skeleton motif, long outlines of the bones underneath those very, very impressive muscles, stretching all the way to his fingertips. He's wearing black nail polish that's starting to chip.  
  
It takes a few moments for Peepers to remember to breathe, let alone move. He's mentally writing and rewriting apologies as he opens the door, all of which fall to pieces when his eyes land on him.  
  
"Sup." he says flatly, automatically, and this time he catches a hint of accent he's all too familiar with. California, Southern. Probably L.A., considering ethnicity.  
  
All of these thoughts are background noise though, trained analysis lurking behind mental screaming and panic. What was he supposed to say to 'sup' ?!  
  
"Good evening." Is what he manages.  
  
"Morning now." the man notes, scratching his neck, and the mental chaos flares. Stupid Peepers! What the hell is wrong with you? This was a disaster, a total disaster, what was he even thinking?!  
  
"I guess." he says, moving closer, even as a thousand voices tell him to get the fuck out of here. He's been dealing with them all his life, so they're easier to ignore.  
  
"I'm sorry about last night. Most people freak out about the..." He points to the patch. "I'm Cap- Peepers Johnson." he says, holding out a hand.  
  
If the man noticed the awkwardness that surrounded the veteran, he certainly didn't show it, shaking his hand with an air of calm aloofness.  
  
"Hater." he replies, as if it were the most normal name in the world. Then again, Peepers couldn't exactly through stones.  
  
"Nice to formally meet you, sir."  
  
"Mm." he hums, putting the water bottle in a bag and zipping it closed. "I'm done for now." he says, standing up, towering well above Peepers, even though he slouched terribly.  
  
He was walking towards the door when he seemed to remember something, going back and grabbing Peepers' arms, earning a surprised squeak. Immediately he prepared for attack, ready to kick him hard enough in the groin he might never have kids. Thankfully that wasn't necessary.  
  
"You should punch lower on the bag." he says brusquely, demonstrating with his own arms. "You're not getting the brunt of the force, punching at an angle. The vertical component steals it. That's why you're more likely the break your knuckles than someone's jaw, coming from below." he says, seemingly from experience.  
  
"Go perpendicular instead. Even on a big guy, a well aimed punch to the chest can crack some ribs. Or at least startle him for a sec."  
  
With that, he abandons him, strolling out the door and into an elevator, as if he hadn't just told a vet self defense. He'd known the facts, read up on such things, but hand-to-hand combat wasn't exactly common in modern warfare.  
  
Even so, Peepers feels something soft and fragile form in his chest as he thinks about it, about the fact that he'd noticed him, even if not for the reasons he hoped. He doesn't stay in the gym long this time, about a half-hour, and falls to the first dreamless sleep he's had in an age.


	4. The New Guy

After about a week, Peepers is starting to wish that Hater hadn't noticed him.  
  
He's slipped into his routine of work and lack of sleep, and has given up the strong, silent type role for that of another obnoxious dudebro. He sings along to his music, loud rock and roll and metal, and grunts more than he needs to, and brags about himself when they share a break.  
  
He's frustrating and annoying as all hell, but Peepers still finds himself anticipating their nightly meetings. Not **just** because he's hot, though it certainly doesn't hurt. More because Peepers can tell this is just how he is, and how he is with people, normal people. People who aren't broken in body and mind and working themselves to death. He doesn't treat him differently, and he really admires it. Even if that means he has to hear gratingly out of tune Metallica, complete with air guitar,  and concur that his bod is totally rocking yet again.  
  
Plus, there are the moments when, just for a second, he can see past the shallow show he's putting on. Like when Peepers found him cooing over pictures of a truly nasty looking chihuahua he called 'Captain Tim', Timmy or Tim-Tims for short. He'd even teared up a little because he couldn't live with him anymore, their apartments didn't allow pets, so he was living with a girl named Ripov.  
  
Peepers actually realizes later he saw her once, at a group therapy for veterans. She had rolled her eyes at the whole proceedings, smoked Belgian cigarettes in the fire escape, and shouted "I'M A FUCKING LESBIAN!" when the stupid and daring came on to her.  
  
He's sure that Captain Tim is in good hands.  
  


* * *

It's fifteen days after first meeting Hater that he announces he won't be coming anymore.  
  
"Since I start working at my dumb new job tomorrow and stuff." he grumbles as they lean up against the wall, taking sips from water bottles.  
  
"Oh?" Peepers says, trying not to sound too surprised. He knew that he had to have a job, but had never really thought about it before.  
  
"Yea. I used to do night shifts at the plant. Never got off the schedule."  
  
A power plant. Peepers could see it. Monitoring turbines, looking at readouts and trying not to fall asleep. It seems like the sort of job you'd begrudging do, if only for a paycheck. Hater said his main goal was to be 'the greatest rock star ever', but obviously that wasn't enough to make ends meet.  
  
"When do you think you'll be coming around?" he asks tentatively, trying not to feel too crushed. This was good. He'd have to go back to his observatory hours soon anyway. It wasn't healthy to cut a chuck out of his sleep time. Not that he could really talk much about healthy, aside from maybe nutrition.  
  
Hater shrugs. It's his most common answer to things that didn't light up his passion like a thunderstorm.  
  
Peepers doesn't have to think long to find an answer to this conundrum, the joys of the modern era, but asking about it makes his spine go so stiff he can practically feel the vertebra.  
  
"Let me see your phone." he says, too quickly, the words meshing together like putty.  
  
He earns a raised eyebrow, but Hater complies, and Peepers punches in his name, number, and personal email.  
  
"Here. If you ever want to meet up. Or talk. Or something." he says, trying to go for casual but still ending up a formal fucking mess.  
  
"Cool." he says, with that same easy lack of care that seems to infect his words. It's not callous or mean, just distant, like he's somewhere far away but still listening. A comet lighting up the sky.  
  
Hater texts him the skull emoji so he has his number too, and it makes Peepers smile more than it should.  
  
"I guess I'll see you around." Peepers says as he stands, feeling the sort of pleasant tired he earns after exercising. He yawns, picks up his water bottle, and heads for the door.  
  
He's too tired to notice the flush on Hater's face, a silent epiphany to be denied and overanalyzed.  
  
He's too tired to see the first signs of someone loving him.  
  


* * *

There's a buzz at the office the next day when he arrives, a jittering excitement among his coworkers. They're whispering, giggling, spurring out rumors with such efficiency and rapidity they make background noise.  
  
"I heard he worked at CERN!"  
  
"No way! He's obviously a JPL guy."  
  
"I bet he's German. That's where all the good physicists come from."  
  
"Nuh-uh! All the good astronomers are Polish."  
  
"Like who?"  
  
"Uh, Copernicus for one! Honestly, you call yourself a astro-historian."  
  
"He just stole that from some Muslim scholars!"  
  
"Guys, guys! Marina says a new car just parked in the lot! He's here!"  
  
"Oh my god, my station's a mess! I gotta fix it!"  
  
"As if he's gonna work with **you**. His thing's gravity wells."  
  
"And thermodynamics."  
  
"Then he's probably gonna work with the chromatography guy."  
  
Peepers perked up a little at that, since **he** was the chromatography guy. Well, he did everything really, a handyman of a physicist. Armed forces made an problem-solver of them all. But chromatography was his specialty back in college.  
  
Wong would have told him if he had a new partner though. He choose the corner office for a reason, didn't have to hear the young'ns goofing off that way.  
  
If this guy was half of what the rumors said he was though, goofing off would hardly be a problem.  
  
Peepers is heading over to Wong's office to try and glean the truth of the matter when the man himself comes out, nearly whacking him in the nose.  
  
"Oh hey, C. Peeps! Didn't see you there. Just on my way to tell you we've got a new guy on the way."  
  
"I gathered." he says, so bitter it was choking, but Wong didn't so much as blink.  
  
"Anyway," he continues, stretching out the a sound. "He's taking Trudy's old station next to yours."  
  
(Trudy had 'voluntarily retired' shortly before Peepers had arrived, after taking too much vacation time and using her twin sister, Judy , as a doppelgänger. Of course, Judy didn't know anything about advanced calculus, and was soon found out.)  
  
Before Peepers could get a word out of his mouth though, the whispers suddenly stopped, everyone dashed to their desks, and he could hear shoes clicking against the tile floor just outside the door.  
  
"Speak of the Devil." Wong says, and sure enough, the Devil does seem to have entered their office. He's tall and imposing, face hidden in the hood of a black hoodie, but something about him seems....familiar.  
  
"Dr. Harold Martinez, it's an honor to meet you." Wong says, shaking his hand enthusiastically.  
  
"Mmph. Please tell me you have coffee here." he says groggily, earning one of Wong's grating laughs.  
  
"Of course. Peeps, why don't you give your new roomie the tour?" he says, ruffling his hair and vanishing back into his office.  
  
"Prick." Peepers says, turning to the new guy. "My name is -" His introduction is halted in its tracks as the hood is pulled down, revealing brown-black eyes and white ink.  
  
"Sup, Peepers?"


	5. Goodness Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there is some mild racism from a minor character near the end of the chapter, and it is a component of hater's backstory later so heads up. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Peepers does his best to ignore the whispers around them as he sits on the break room counter, watching Hater pour coffee into an absurdly large thermos with lightening bolts on it. He then proceeds to drink at least half of it in one long gulp, sighing contentedly.  
  
"So," he says, once there's a hint of life in his eyes. "Doctor?"  
  
"Eh." he says dismissively. "Hater's fine."  
  
"I thought you worked at a power plant." he says, trying to keep the anger at bay, the burning rage embedded in his soul no matter how hard he scrubbed. He didn't have a right to be angry, they weren't friends. Not the proper kind.  
  
"I did." he says, leaning against the counter, continuing to ingest coffee sip by sip. "A nuclear one. At JPL."  
  
Peepers catches a smug looking intern out of the corner of his eye, and it breaks what  little composure he was holding onto.  
  
"Out!" he shouts to the lingering employees, the voice he used when the men on base had done something particularly stupid.  
  
He doesn't have to say it twice.  
  
"Nice trick there, Peepers." he says, smirking.  
  
Peepers flushes but stares him down, wringing his hands.  
  
"Why here?" he hisses.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why **here**?!" he demands, pulling him by his collar down to his level, just to make it absolutely clear. It's actually possible when he's sitting on the counter. "You could go anywhere, do anything. I've read your papers!" Though he'd never connected two and two. "You're fucking brilliant! You could be at the E-ELT! Or at least at Kennedy! So what's so special about here?"  
  
It didn't make any sense. Why would someone of such high scientific caliber be in a barely funded, publicly-ignored, tedious field as exoplanet observation?  
  
Hater is quiet for a long time, so long that a swarm of anxieties starts to descend upon Peepers. Was he angry? Upset? Surely he had a right to be. Maybe he would hurt him. Maybe he deserved it.  
  
"You really want to know?" he whispers, soft and uncertain, like the first prayer of a non-believer.  
  
Peepers nods, letting go of his shirt, which he smoothes down, tugging at the frayed hem.  
  
"I'm not going to go all backstory or whatever, cause it's lame. But this isn't what I want to do with my life. I mean, I don't hate it. It can actually be kind of cool. And I'm fucking great at it. But it's not my world, not like it is for you guys." he says, trying to maintain that aloofness, but there was actual care in his voice. It makes the moment eerily real.  
  
"It's **not** my world." he admits, before he can really think or plan. It just seeps out of him. "Like you said, it's not terrible. I'm good at it. But it's just sort of...there." he says, not good enough with words to voice the turmoil of what his life was and where this fit in it.  
  
When Peepers looks at him though, he can tell Hater knows what he means. Not exactly, not in context. More like the reflection in a funhouse mirror, distorted but visible.  
  
"The biggest lie adults ever told us is that they knew what they were doing." Peepers says resentfully.  
  
He doesn't know what he was expecting, if he was expecting anything at all, but a round of uproarious laughter wasn't it. Hater's laugh is deep and rumbling, like thunder, and he feels that same soft warmth in his chest from the night they first met.  
  
Peepers was never a Casanova, but he isn't dumb. He knows was a crush feels like. But somehow this felt different than staring at the high school quarterback as he passed, or the thoughts of maybe with some of the men he'd trained with. This has more heft to it, more weight. It sinks into his skin.  
  
A hand claps on his shoulder, bringing him back to reality.  
  
"Come on, Peepers. Let's conquer some planets with science!" he says, smiling at him with a grin so infectious he has to return it.  
  
"Sir, yes sir!"  
  


* * *

However, there's another smile in the break room, unseen and unhappy. It belongs to a man who's job it is to know what's going on in his place, even the things he doesn't want to.  
  
"Figures." Mano Wong mumbles, detaching himself from his hiding place once they've left. "I hope he makes you happy Peeps."  
  
With the words, he takes a deep breath and walks back to his office, feeling as heavy as if he were walking on Jupiter. Unrequited love can do that to a guy. But he's no wallower. He'll do the right thing, if not for the right reasons.  
  
"Playing Cupid with nerds." he says as he 'accidentally' switches Karl and Peepers slots for tonight's observatory time. "What do you know? My horoscope was right."  
  


* * *

Peepers has to hand it to him, Hater is fucking great at what he does. He installs some new program he designed onto his computer that automatically picks up possible points of interest around stars with the big planets, the ones they found way back in the nineties, big gaseous things completely useless for humans. But with Hater's groundbreaking research into gravity wells, they might be able to see past the overbearing signature of those gas giants and find the hidden Earth-like planets closer to the star.  
  
"Can't be certain with specifically looking in real time though." Hater reminds him as he stares at a map full of possible new blips. "Since it's Earth data, might just be the atmosphere fucking things up. You might be able to use heat signatures or Hubble's record, but that would take forever."  
  
It is at this point that Peepers' own brilliance decides to step up to the plate.  
  
"Not necessarily. But first, we're going to need a bigger gun."  
  
Peepers drags a confused but interested Hater to the parking garage gate, getting an early release and re-enter tag so he won't be barred. When they reach his car though, he notices a rather significant problem without a solution.  
  
He looks between the squat vehicle and Hater several times before sighing in defeat.  
  
"There's no way you'll fit in there. I guess it'll have to wait." he says, feeling inappropriately disappointed at this revelation. He wanted to prove that he was good at this too, that he was smart enough.  
  
"Dude. We can just take the van." he says, pointing across the lot. He tosses Peepers the keys, complete with Megadeath keychain. "One scratch on my baby and you're dead."  
  
He's pretty sure a scratch is the least of the rustbucket's worries. There are dents and pockmarks galore, and one taillight has a crack in it. The paint is pretty intact though, more skulls and lightening bolts and HATER in a big stylized font. The inside is hardly better. The back is stuffed with cardboard boxes of holiday decorations and other items marked misc, and the front has a small flood of empty water bottles lining the floor.  
  
The organized part of Peepers' mind screams in horror at this disaster, but there's no time to appease it. Instead he pulls the seat forward all the way, pushes away the debris from the pedals, and starts the engine. It coughs and splutters, but does eventually cede to operation.  
  
"So where are we going?" Hater asks as they leave the parking lot in a car that seems to Peepers to handle worse than a literal tank.  
  
"The best GC/MS I know about. I've already got a profile of the atmosphere around here, and statistically significant changes are unlikely in twenty years. We're not industrial enough. If we take that into account, I think we can narrow down our pool of suspects significantly."  
  
"Huh." he says, biting his lip as he processes the information. "That could work. Except you're leaving Johnson right now." he says as they get on I-10, and he smirks.  
  
"Who said NASA owned it?"  
  


* * *

Thirty minutes later, the two astrophysicists find themselves parked in front of a police station, a fact that comes to a great shock to Hater.  
  
"Please tell me we're not going in there."  
  
"Don't worry. I've got a man on the inside." he reassures him, though actually he has a Zbornak.  
  
Sylvia Zbornak, to be precise. Born into a family of cops, she was quick to follow into her father and brothers' footsteps. But not exactly in the same way. Not to be underestimated by any means, she had a legendary right hook, but she had a gentler side to her. She worked with domestic cases instead of homicide. That's how she met Wander, placing kids in better homes, and how Peepers met her.  
  
They were not friends by any means. Certainly nothing like Wander and her. He had thought they were married at first, being so close, which made her crack up when he told her. Not only had they no romantic feelings for each other, they didn't even like the same genders. Sylvia was gayer than a butch lumberjack and Wander well...Wander was lovey-dovey with **everyone**. But they always ended up going for bad boys.  
  
They weren't friends, but they had an understanding. They were birds of a feather, realists surrounded by dreamers. When Wander was being frustratingly positive and he felt like broken glass, Sylvia would sometimes remind him to suck up and deal with it. Power through Johnson, even if the light at the end of the tunnel is out. Or some sappy shit like that.  
  
Admittedly, she wasn't the most graceful girl in the world.  
  
As they walk into the station, Peepers notices Hater looking nervous, hunching over even more the normal, trying to be small. He guesses it is kind of intimidating for a layperson, the hustle and bustle of officers and suspects, witnesses and family members huddled for support. It's not a happy place.  
  
He asks for Sylvia and is pointed four doors down the hall. In passing, a man in handcuffs, escorted by two officers, growls at them, spitting out a nasty-sounding word in Spanish. Peepers, not knowing Spanish nor the man, doesn't stop. But Hater does, dead in his tracks.  
  
"What is it?" Peepers asks when he sees his coworker standing there, a pillar of stone.  
  
"Nothing." he says, voice tight as a spring. "Let's just get this over with."  
  
Confused but not wanting to pry, they continued their journey and soon arrived at the door. Peepers knocked, earned a 'come in.'  
  
Sylvia sat at her desk, feet up on a wooden chair as she leaned back in her office one. Her navy uniform looked like sunset sky against deep space compared to her dark skin. Her purple dreadlocks pooled on the table, and she was eating a ridiculously large piece of pie.  
  
"Peepers? What are you doing here?" she asks, not mad, just surprised.  
  
"Afternoon, Zbornak." he says, they were last name kind of people. "I need a favor." He explains their situation, introducing Hater as Dr. Martinez, since he isn't sure who's allowed to call him Hater.  
  
"So basically you want to use what forensics uses for drugs to find far away planets."  
  
"Crudely put, yes."  
  
"I don't know. That's a lot of paperwork, Johnson."  
  
"I'll buy you Bloyd's."  
  
"Three meals."  
  
"One."  
  
"Two or nothing, brain boy."  
  
"Deal."  
  
They shake on it, and all seems to be going well. At least, until the door slams open. In walks a man with wild blonde hair, aviator glasses, and a self-satisfied smile.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Ryder! I told you to knock before barging in like that!" Sylvia shouts, feet banging to the floor.  
  
"Sorry." he says, clearly not meaning it. He whistles when his eyes land on Hater, craning his neck to see his face properly. "I thought you didn't want to work in the gang division."  
  
Peepers' eye widens at the sheer nerve of this man, assuming Hater was some sort of thug! Sure, he acted tough, and could do something terrible if he wanted, but he didn't. He was a good man, if a slightly annoying one.  
  
" **Doctor** Martinez isn't a gang member, you action movie extra washout, he's a astrophysicist, and I think you owe him an apology."  
  
"Ha! This guy's no more a rocket scientist than me. And who do you think you are, little guy? Huh? The president?"  
  
Peepers had already had his patience tried once today, and he was far beyond warnings at this point. He hit Ryder in the chest, hard, and at a right angle, as Hater had shown him. He gasped and fell to his knees, making it much easier to step on his torso hard enough to make him wheeze.  
  
"I'm Captain Calvin Johnson, and you **will** apologize to my partner or I will make sure the executive branch rejects you faster than every girl you've ever met. Understood?"  
  
Ryder gives a weak nod, not yet having recovered his breath. As soon as he does, he splutters out an apology more made of fear than regret, but he'll take it.  
  
Once he had fled, Peepers grabs Hater's hand, not wanting to stay in the same building as that asshole a second longer than necessary.  
  
"Email me when the lab's free." he tells Sylvia, and storms out.  
  


* * *

"Ugh, what a tool!" Peepers declares as he puts on his seatbelt. "I'm so sorry you had to deal with someone so small-minded. The brave and bold my ass. More like the ignorant and cla-"  
  
His rant screeches to a halt when lips press against his cheek.  
  
"Thanks. For defending my honor and stuff." Hater says softly. It's a rare thing for him, to be vulnerable, but the guy definitely earned it.   
  
Peepers' face has turned a bright scarlet at the action, and he doesn't want to ruin the moment, so he just smiles and turns on the engine. 

"Anytime." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GC/MS stands for Gas Chromatography/Mass Spectrometry by the way.
> 
> UPDATE: There's fanart b/c my friend @GrayceAdams here on A03, who's PNF fics are hella check them out, is dying and so am I. 
> 
> (http://oboeist3.tumblr.com/post/147363418850/talentisapursuedinterest-ugh-what-a-tool)


	6. Pangur Ban

The ride back to the office isn't actually all that awkward. Hater puts on a some German metal band, the kind that makes your teeth vibrate with its loudness, and Peepers finds he can pick out some of the words. The swear words, primarily, since that was what his uncles taught him when they visited.  
  
His whole family was Pennsylvania Dutch save his mother, a bitter Italian orphan from the Bronx. She'd mellowed out a lot since marrying his father, an average looking dentist who went grey early in life, but would still tear him a new one when he did something stupid. Like say, join the Marines. She still hadn't really forgiven him for it, if the vaguely hostile letters she's always sent him were any indication. But there was more love than anything, and the holidays he spent back in his hometown were only mildly unpleasant.  
  
Peepers' brain is picking apart that kiss for all it could be and screaming, but he was sadly used to it. Besides the consensus was mostly that it wasn't a big deal. Whether cultural or just friendly, it was definitely **not** romantic, which should not feel as disappointing as it was.  
  
When he parks the van back in it's spot, scratch-free, most of the sun has disappeared over the horizon, sky ever-so-slowly fading into navy. Peepers was dreading having to drive all the way back home in the horrendous traffic that was ensuing from tourists not understanding spacing, but he had no one to blame but himself.  
  
"You're lucky." he says to Hater as he gives him back his keys. "You probably have viewing hours tonight."  
  
"Define lucky." he says, deadpan.  
  
"Well, you'll not have to deal with that." he reminds him, pointing to the already nightmarish exit.  
  
"Mm." he hums, giving him that much. "More coffee for me then. Anywhere in particular I should look?" he asks.  
  
"Wong should have emailed you what we're looking at now. I suppose G5-397 has promise, but I doubt it. Sun's too late stage."  
  
"White dwarfs tend to be relatively stable."  
  
"Not red giants though."  
  
"Well why didn't you just **say** so?" he grumbles, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was, for them.  
  
It was oddly...nice, talking about work to someone. Not officially, all formal and pre-planned, but just bouncing off each other. It was easy to forget, sometimes, the immensity of what they were doing, in the tedious aspects of it. They were looking at the past, and their future. Not for them or their children, but someday.  
  
Take that, historians.  
  
By the time they get back inside and to their adjacent stations, they've drifted off the multiverse theory, which is better? Peepers is holding onto string, for the physics of it. Hater is more bubble, though he admits it's mostly a personal preference, without data to support it.  
  
"Dealing with black holes, things get weird, so I'd rather not have time paradoxes in the same universe as me too." Hater says, shuddering at the thought.  
  
"So you think there's some universe where Back to the Future is real?" he says, teasing.  
  
"I sure hope so. Those hoverboards were rad."  
  
Before he can respond however, Wong approaches, looking confused.  
  
"Yo, Peeps! Whatcha' still doing here?"  
  
Peepers checks his watch, he's still got about ten minutes, though flushes when he realizes he hasn't really done all that much today.  
  
"Um, well..." he starts, not having a concrete answer for once, and the surprise of it is clear on his superior's face. "Doctor -"  
  
"Hater."  
  
"Sorry. Hater and I were asking for access to the police's GC/MS, but....they need time to process it, and we just got back. I haven't checked my email all day. Did I miss something important?"  
  
"Yea, Karl had to switch to your time on Wednesday because his daughter's got some recital or whatever. I figured you could take tonight. But you still have to drive there in time. You know that one -"  
  
"G5-397."  
  
"That one, yea. It's on the horizon in a half hour."  
  
"Right. Got it, Wong." he says, walking back towards the door. "You're driving this time!" he says to Hater.  
  
"If my seat can go back again." he says, easily catching up with those unfairly long legs. Fuck tall people. Especially this tall person.  
  
"Haven't heard that one before." he says sarcastically, holding back a sigh.  
  
Tonight was going to be a long one.  
  


* * *

Thankfully for Peepers' consistently bruised ego, Hater spends the first hour or so installing his new program on the telescope's computer while he observes and takes manual notes. He doesn't need to, technically, the computer gets everything, but it gives him some solace.  
  
If the pen jitters a little whenever Hater's shoulder brushes against his, well, no one would have to know.  
  
"Anything interesting?" Hater asks as he finishes up, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.  
  
"Not really." he says dully, the tedium starting to get to him. He has an audiobook he's been working on, but he can't listen to it with company. "It's pretty though." he says, as hundreds of light-years away dust swirls and stretches, purples and greens a splashing against the sky.  
  
"Let me see." he says, and they trade seats. Peepers nearly falls when the seat is lower than he expects. It's comfortable too, a worn desk chair, still warm from the previous occupant. He leans back with a sigh, shutting his eyes, just for a moment or two.  
  
The thing about not sleeping properly for over a month is that your body gets tired of it, and in the inviting comfort of the chair, it quickly decides this is good enough.  
  
So when Hater turns to agree with his earlier statement he finds his coworker fast asleep, snoring softly.  
  
"Hmph." he huffs, a little annoyed, but it's now clear as day that Peepers wasn't on a night-shift, so their nightly meetings were quite a strain on him. "Just this once." he stresses, but then has another problem. His back would be fucked up by morning if he slept like that. But if he moved him too much, he might wake up.  
  
The solution he comes up with is...unorthodox, and makes him flush a little, but he's got nothing better. Hater moves his upper body so he's lying mostly horizontal, his head and shoulders resting on his thigh. He takes off his sweater and drapes it over him as a sort of blanket, though it only reaches his knees. Peepers squirms a little until he finds the most pillow-y part of his thigh, the upper part apparently. He can feel each exhale against his stomach.  
  
Once he's sure his coworker's settled and still asleep, he picks up the pen and trains an eye to the sky. Work to be done and all.  
  
If his free hand occasionally runs through the other's hair as the world turns and the stars shine, well , that would be his own little secret.  
  


* * *

_Calvin hates tax season on the base. Not for his own paperwork, unpleasant as it is, but for processing the forms of the swarm of men below him. Most of their handwriting is shit, which doesn't help matters._  
  
_He's in the middle of trying to decipher if that was an l or a t when there's a knock at the door._  
  
_"Come in." he says, not looking up. Hopefully it's the soldier he sent to get him food._  
  
_Of course he isn't that lucky._  
  
_"Captain Johnson, sir! There's a protester at the gate." says a soldier, standing at attention._  
  
_"At ease." he says offhand, before continuing. "Just shoo them away, soldier. These people come all the time."_  
  
_"Sir, we tried, but he keeps demanding to see you. We'd rather not cause a scene by physically removing him."_  
  
_Calvin has to admit there's a point there, they already don't curry a lot of local favor, and kicking a peaceful, if annoying, protester to the curb wasn't going to help matters._  
  
_"Alright. If yelling at me will make him happy, I guess I'll go." he says, stretching out his stuff limbs. He hasn't seen sunlight since this morning anyway. A walk would do him good._  
  
_The soldier leads him across base to the gate where, sure enough, a pissy looking young man is demanding repeatedly to speak with whoever's in charge._  
  
_The soldiers guarding the gate stand at attention as he approaches, and he waves for them to be at ease as he clears his throat loudly._  
  
_"Looking for me, sir?" he says, smiling fakely at the man._  
  
_He'll never forget the look he gets in return. It's hatred deeper than anything he's ever seen before, so vast it could swallow the all in one big gulp. This is beyond annoyance, beyond politics. This man hated them on mere principle of existence._  
  
_It makes his skin crawl as the usual torrent emerges from his mouth, how they were thieves and liars and cowards. It was clear he truly believes every word, and intended to do action on it._  
  
_That should have been his sign, he thinks later, to get out of there, but at the time, he couldn't. There was a morbid horror gluing his feet to the ground even as the words become louder and more confrontational, as he sheds his cloak and reveals wires and packets of C-4._  
  
_His men are shouting, but everything seems to be in slow motion as fingers flick over a switch and guns are raised._  
  
_And then comes along the recruit, the kid, pushing everyone back, including his captain. Standing at ground zero when the world goes yellow-orange, and smiling._  
  
_He shouts his name, tells him to stop, but it's too late._  
  


* * *

After a few hours, Hater notices that Peepers is getting more agitated, mumbling in his sleep, head turning. He tries to soothe him, get him to settle once more, but it doesn't work.  
  
He wakes up screaming, fingers clawing at his shirt, his eye still somewhere far away. It sends chills down Hater's spine, the pain in it, tears welling up as misshapen words fall from his mouth like drops of blood.  
  
"No no no no no! Don't take him! D-Don't. He's just a kid, he doesn't know better, please! Take me. Take **me**! He's only, he was only a boy. I-It shouldn't have been." he says, staring straight at Hater but not seeing him. "It should have been me." he says, voice cracking in two, curling his body as small as possible.  
  
"It should have been me." he repeats, sobbing.  
  
All he can do is hold him tight until the past lets it's iron grip go of Peepers' mind. Hater's scared as hell, unsure what was going on, but he could see the little guy needed something to hold onto. So he'll let that be him.  
  
"You're going to be ok." he says, lying through his teeth. He can't promise him that, can't really promise him anything. But that's what you do, when you care about someone. You lie. You lie until it's true.  
  
Or until it doesn't matter anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cried writing this. i cried editing it. i cried while posting it. pls help my eyeball son


	7. Black Sun

Peepers thought he had known self-loathing, had held her as a bedfellow long enough to feel out all her edges, had been able to save enough confidence to survive her torment. But the nights alone felt like scratches compared to the mental wounds of coming back from yesterday and finding someone looking at you, sad and scared.  
  
"I'm sorry." he says, voice croaking around the words. "I'm sorry you had to see...that." he says, slowly unfurling his fingers from his shirt, wrinkles like starbursts across the fabric. The sweater slips from his shoulders. He can't really remember exactly what he says when he's reliving it, but it couldn't have been easy. He's still shaking a little, still weak.  
  
Broken.  
  
"Don't apologize." Hater says, orders really, but it's more full of care than conviction. "Are you ok? Or er...better?" he asks, since he can still feel him trembling under his hands.  
  
"Sort of." he admits, sliding out of his lap, even though he wants nothing more than to stay there all night. He's been enough of a problem, too much.  
  
"I'll be fine." he says with a weak smile, since he can see the concern still shining in his eyes. "Let's get back to work. I'm s- You know." he says, turning back towards the monitors, careful to sit on the edge of the seat. Just in case.  
  
"Peepers." he says, grabbing his arm and turning the chair so he's facing him. Hater still looks scared, and the face etches into his memory like a chisel in limestone.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"You don't have to tell me what's going on. You don't owe me that. But I'm **here** , ok? Whatever it is, you don't have to do it alone." he says, with a resolve that confuses and elates him.  
  
He doesn't deserve the kindness, but it calls to him. He wants it, terribly so. He wants Hater to be his someone special, his first responder, willing to listen to however much he can manage to say.  
  
"I-I..." he stutters, and he's still shaking, not out fear of the remembered anymore, no. Fear that he'll ruin this, lose the one person he's really let into his life. But if he was, might as well be now.  
  
"I have PTSD." he says, which really, is saying nothing at all. Nothing about the suicidal tendencies, the trust issues, the self-harm, the compulsions. But it's a start. A first step.  
  
"That sucks." Hater says after a moment, and it's so simple and obvious and...real. It makes Peepers laugh a little, a rusty thing, a bit too high-pitched.  
  
"Yea, it does." he says, wiping away some tears on his sleeve. "I'm working on it." Working harder than he ever has before, and to no avail. Turns out you can't brute force healing.  
  
He blinks when he feels fabric fall in his lap, a lump the reveals itself to be Hater's hoodie.  
  
"Since you were shaking." he says, when Peepers looks up at him. He turns his attention back to the telescope, looking embarrassed, unsure. "You don't have to -"  
  
"Thanks." he says, slipping it on. Of course it's much too big on him, more like a dress than a sweater, but it's warm and soft and smells like Hater. Instead of small, he feels safe.  
  
It's a good feeling.  


* * *

They go back to the job at hand, Peepers reviewing the data he's missed. Nothing obvious pokes out among it, no alien message of 'look here!' He watches each stream of digits come in, hears the creaking of the telescope as it crawls along the sky. The routine of it softens the edges of memory still poking up, nothing concrete, just uneasy feelings.  
  
He doesn't know how long it's been when Hater speaks again, the comment almost offhand as his eye trains on the sky.  
  
"For the record, I'm glad you're still here, Peeps. You're a good guy."  
  
"You too, Hater." he says, and means it.  


* * *

Peepers ends up stealing the hoodie. He doesn't mean to, just forgets to take it off, and doesn't notice until he gets home. It fits in somehow, with the rollercoaster of a day.  
  
There's a plethora of things to worry and stress over, but they seem far away, farther even than the stars they'd watched all night.  
  
He's happy. A whispy, thin version of it, but it's something. A little fire in a planitia, sheltered from the howling winds, just enough to make his chest warm. He's happy because someone cares about him, someone who isn't forced to by blood or occupation.  
  
It's a shit reason, but he'll take it.  


* * *

Meanwhile, in an apartment two floors up, Hater's still awake, staring at the screen of his phone. He types out a few words, then deletes them. Types some more, delete.

**_I was_**  
  
**_I had_**  
  
**_I think_**  
  
**_I like you._**  
  
He pauses, looking at his last attempt. I would be easy, just one button away. But it isn't right. Even he knows that's not how it's supposed to be done. So he sighs, deletes it, and sends something true but not nearly as important.  
  
_**I want my sweater back. -H**_

* * *

The next morning, Peepers wakes up to the most dreaded alarm he's got, the plucking of banjo strings indicating an appointment with Wander. He groans, curling the sweater around him like a protective shield. (Yes, he had worn it to bed. Shut up.)  
  
The avoidance method doesn't work for long though, since the alarm gets louder and louder until he nearly cracks his phone screen turning it off.  
  
He trudges through his routine mindlessly, his only hesitation during the dress part. The hoodie's slumped on his bed, completely at odds with his work casual attire. But he had gotten a text from Hater saying he wanted it back. He could just toss it in his car, logically the best action. Or he could wear it some more.  
  
The storm outside makes the decision for him. He could drive, but why waste fuel? So he grabs an umbrella, shucks on the hoodie, and makes the journey to his therapist's office.  
  
Even with protection, he drips a little on the tile floor as he enters the office. The receptionist, a small Indian woman with a practical shrine to a golden retriever on her desk, sighs heavily and throws him a towel.  
  
However he's not even able to bend down before the door flies open and Wander beams at him, seeming even more cheerful than usual. Which he hadn't known was possible until now.  
  
"Hiya, Calvin!" they say, waving at him. "Don't worry about signing in, there's no time to waste!" they say, grabbing his wrist and pulling him beyond the door and into their office.  
  
They sit down on one of the beanbag chairs, and Peepers, still frazzled, soon follows.  
  
"Sooo," they say, eyes sparkling with joy. "Tell me all about him."  
  
"Um, who?"  
  
"Your partner, silly! Sylvia says she met y'all yesterday, but she wouldn't tell me any details, and I'm just dying to know!"  
  
"Dr. Martinez?" he asks, a bit redundantly. He wasn't quite caught up yet to Wander's pace. "He's tall, Latino, likes metal music. His specialty is gravity wells, so we're going to be working together a lot. Why do you want to -"  
  
"Handsome?" they ask mischievously, and Peepers flushes.  
  
"I-I guess?"  
  
"Aw, no need to be so shy, Cal! He **is** your partner." they say, and suddenly he understands.  
  
"My **lab** partner, my **work** partner. Not my.... **that**. Christ, you're worse than my boss!" he says, which is a complete lie. No one is worse than Wong.  
  
"But you want him to be." they say shrewdly, and his face goes even darker.  
  
"What does this have to do with anything?" he says through gritted teeth, starting to get angry. "You're my therapist, Wander. Not my friend."  
  
"I can be both." they say, still smiling. "But if you'd rather talk about that. How are the nightmares?"  
  
Shit. He'd really dug himself into a hole, hadn't he.  
  
"Not worse than before." he settles upon.  
  
"Not better though? Have you been taking your medicine?"  
  
"Yes, xir."  
  
"Hm. They usually work pretty well. You're on a low dose though. Let's try doubling it. I'll write you a new prescription." they say, rummaging around for their pad.  
  
"How's your mood been?" they ask as they search.  
  
"Consistent." he says, which is true. Consistently low, but that didn't matter. They'd just say to work on affirmations or some bullshit.  
  
"Any friends?"  
  
Peepers thinks about Hater, thinks about the nights in the gym, the way they'd easily bounced off each other, how he'd said he was there for him. Could he really call him his friend? It seemed too soon, but what else would they be? Acquaintance wasn't quite right anymore, and he wasn't like the others at work, who avoided him almost as much as he did them.  
  
"Maybe. It's not important."  
  
"Of course it is." they say, stopping their search to look straight at him. "Calvin, you can't do this by yourself. You will need people. They don't have to be close, or know everything, not at first. Being alone helps no one and hurts you. You're important, just as much as anyone else out there. You can wallow in your pity for a while, but not forever. You matter. Make it priority number one. My job is to help you, but I can't do anything if you don't want to get better. It won't be easy, nothing that matters ever is. You made it this far, so quitting is not an option. People love you, even if you forget. Hell, I know I do."  
  
The speech hits him hard, like a hammer against a gong. It makes him feel ashamed, because it's true, he's been trying but not because he wants to. It's an obligation. He was only trying to be useful, productive. He can't need people, because if he does, then he isn't enough.  
  
It's not a good mindset, but it's an old one. It's a part of him as much as skin and bone, hemmed into what made him who he was. Changing it would change him. But people change all the time. At least it would be for the better. Right?  
  
"I'll try." he promises. "I'll try my best but...what if I mess up? What if I fail?"  
  
"Then you fail. But that doesn't make you a failure. Just a work in progress. Messing up is part of being alive. Not a fun part, mind you, but a necessary one. Still, for what it's worth, I think you could be ok." they say, making a happy noise once they've found their pad.  
  
"Thank you." he says, standing up with the prescription in his hand. "Thanks for everything. I know I'm not easy to deal with."  
  
"Aw, shucks. You're making my blush Cal-drop! But you are a sweetie-pie, and I love seeing ya." they say, and if it wasn't Wander, it would be too much. But it was, so it wasn't.  
  
"Now I think you've got something to return." they tease, looking at the sweater, and he scowls. Even when they were helpful they were nosy.  
  
Some things don't change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took three days to write and im bitter


	8. Check Your Blind Spot

Hater's worried at first, when he shows up to work and Peepers isn't there. He wasn't exactly the late type. But an awkward, roundabout conversation with his superior reveals the man has a doctor's appointment, standard, planned in advance. He's ok. Well, relatively.  
  
Sure enough he shows up an hour and thirty-seven minutes late, not that he's counting, the requested hoodie folded neatly and with a Mars Bar from the vending machine on top.  
  
"A thanks for letting me borrow it." he explains. "I didn't know what you liked but we work at NASA so..." he shrugs, and there's a decidedly uncute expression of worry there.  
  
"No problem." he says, munching on the candy bar. "Free chocolate's alright by me."  
  
That gets him a smile, or a ghost of one, and Hater decides then and there to make it his mission to collect as many as possible.  
  
"Come on. I need a chromatography guy to analyze this nonsense from last night. I can't tell a blip from a smudge on this thing." he says, getting one more.  
  
Hater's Totally Awesome Happy Peepers Smile Count: 2

* * *

It's funny, Peepers thinks, as they put a framed picture of him and Hater on the wall, how easy it is to not notice progress.  
  
In the past month, the duo of Peepers and Hater 4Ever had discovered forty-two exoplanets, twelve of them in the Goldilocks zone, three with serious potential for intelligent life, as per Bayesian Statistical Inference and its potential among possible aliens proposed by Fergus Simpson. They had also secretly named a few of the favorites, such as F8-1250, affectionately known as Flendar by the duo. It was populated by mole people with impressive military prowess and ruled by an absolute monarch just ripe for corruption. At least, it could be. No one could say it wasn't so.  
  
Why waste such time thinking of elaborate populations for far away worlds? Well, when computers had to hum and analyze and process, you had a lot of down time. Silence gets boring after a while.  
  
Anyway, for all their imaginings, they did their job, and found themselves as joint employees of the month. (Take **that** Ted from accounting!)  
  
They spent time together in the free spaces too, lunch and after-work exercise clicking into routine easily. Things did tend to orbit work-related things, articles and papers and documentaries, but Peepers would cede to tales of new albums and the adventures of Captain Tim, who had decimated the squirrel population around Ripov's house.  
  
Things had also gotten slightly better in the clusterfuck that was Peepers' mental health. The increase in dosage had toned down some of the more jarring nightmares, leaving some nights completely memory-free. He hadn't self-harmed in almost two weeks, and the scars from before we're starting to fade to brown. It was easier to shoo away suicidal thoughts, becoming more and more annoyance and less actual contemplation.  
  
Of course there were bad days and impossible nights, tears and loathing and frantic cleaning to keep himself sane. But things were getting better, little by little.  
  
At least, until the Incident.  


* * *

It was a day like any other lately, full of analysis and back and forth across the cubicles, save Hater's annoying habit to hum along to his music while working. Peepers was goofing off while a program ran in the background, clicking around news sites, and decided to check international news. It had been a while, since his lunches were shared events.  
  
There's a dull but familiar pain at all the chaos, massacres and refugees and maybe-something but no one knows. It was frustrating, the complexity and lack of concrete answers.  
  
He was just about to return to his work when a particular article caught his eye. Or rather, the picture attached to it. Was that...? He clicks on the link.  
  
_American Journalist Killed By Car Bomb_  
  
_In Mosul earlier this week, another tragedy in a land ruled by them. An American journalist is conducting interviews of the locals with his trusted cameraman, and remembers something left in the car. He unsuspectingly returns to get it, but is sent to his grave by explosives packed in the engine compartment. Andrew Braun has been_  
  
Peepers stops reading. It's true. It's Andy.  
  
Technically, Andy wasn't one of his men. He was a journalist, a pushy one, who had reported on the base for almost a year, interviewing soldiers and broadcasting it on the local network, the emergency line. He almost had a riot on his hands when he had to use it for an actual emergency broadcast, cutting off the season finale. He was a nuisance, annoying, always distracting the men with his pointless interviews. But he was a good guy, and he made them happy.  
  
And now he was dead.  
  
Morbid curiosity forces him to read the rest of the article, terribly cliche and overemotional. Andy would have loved it. The end of it mentions Bean, the cameraman and his husband. He hadn't known that, but it didn't surprise him. He lives in Houston now. Alone, and probably thinking it was all his fault.  
  
Peepers stands up, something like determination pounding through his veins. He marches over to Wong's office, not even knocking before entering, which makes the supervisor jump in his seat.  
  
"Jesus Peeps! You scared the shit outta me!"  
  
"I'm leaving early." he says, not waiting for a response before walking towards the door. Curious faces watch him, baffled by the sudden shift in character.  
  
Peepers ignores them, taking out his phone. He's got work to do.  


* * *

It's not hard to figure out Andy's address. He was a social media nut, and had a limited sense of privacy. A few minutes scrolling through his Facebook reveals a picture of the house itself, the address painted on the lip of the sidewalk. He plugs it into his GPS and drives.  
  
He realizes halfway there that Bean might have moved out, or was still at work, but he's in no hurry to return and explain himself to Wong. So he hopes for the best.  
  
For once though, Lady Luck is on his side. He arrives at the house and sees a battered van in the driveway, the same as in the picture.  
  
Peepers sits for a moment, trying to think of what to say, but there's no easy way of saying what he wants and he has no idea how Bean will respond. Looks like he's just going to have to wing it.  
  
He walks up to the door, takes a deep breath, and rings the bell.  
  
There's the tell-tale sound of the scrambling of someone who wasn't expecting anyone at the door, the squeak of shoes on tile. The door opens and there stands Bean.  
  
He's a short guy, only a few inches taller than Peepers, and looks haggard and broken in a way that is eerily familiar to him. Bags under the eyes, clothes that have been worn for days, a fleeting glance of hope that somehow his husband was home and not buried in the ground.  
  
"Captain Johnson?" he says, looking at him with a mix of confusion and horror. "W-what are you doing here?"  
  
"I just heard about Andy."  
  
"Oh. Um, you better come in." he says, stepping aside. The inside is a mess, unwashed dishes everywhere, boxes stacked almost to the ceiling. Bean pushes away stacks of newspapers piled on the sofa, careful to keep their order.  
  
"Sorry about the mess. Things have been hectic, lately." he says as they sit down.  
  
"Don't worry about it."  
  
"Would you like something to drink? I have um...water. I think there's some orange juice? Andy's stupid artisan b-b-beer." he says, spitting out his name like it's painful.  
  
"I'm fine. I just wanted to check up on you. I can't imagine what it's like. I'm sorry."  
  
"I'm sure you've had your troubles." he says, looking at the eyepatch. "Can I ask? No, forget it. Sorry."  
  
"It's ok. There was an attack on the base. Shrapnel." he says, the simple version. Bean hardly needs more pain in his life.  
  
"That's terrible." he says, and Peepers shrugs.  
  
"I'm getting better." he says, and it's true this time. "I'm worried about you. I know I didn't really know you, but losing someone's hard."  
  
"No shit." he says, laughing bitterly for a moment. "I'm trying to move on. He would've wanted me to. But he was the best thing that ever happened to me. How do you get over that?" he says, eyes watering. Peepers hands him a handkerchief from his pocket.  
  
"I don't know." he says. "Maybe you don't. But you do learn to live with it. Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Do you have a therapist?"  
  
"No. What would they tell me I don't already know? It's not my fault, even if I blame myself. Keeping moving forward. All that **bullshit**."  
  
"They probably won't tell you anything you don't know. But sometimes you have to hear it from someone else. Brains are really good at ignoring themselves." he says, feeling a little weird, but he was trying to help, to give him advice he hadn't gotten.  
  
"Look, I know I'm not the person who's supposed to tell you this. I'm practically a stranger. But you're gonna need help. Doesn't have to be some shrink. Just someone. Believe me I tried the solo route, it's no fun. If you don't have anyone, you can text me, ok? I'll try to be there." he says, tentatively reaching out a hand. He gets pulled into a hug instead, tears soaking his shirt as he cries. It's a long held one, the tears of someone holding strong for the public.  
  
Peepers stiffens, terrible with affection, but wraps his arms around him and makes soothing noises. That's what you did, right? Bean seems to be ok with it.  
  
It's a full five minutes until he recovers enough to pull away, trying to apologize and getting a stern insistence he doesn't have to. He writes down his number and Wander's, noting that they were pretty good, if nosy.  
  
"You were married to Andy though, so I doubt that will be a problem."  
  
This makes him smile in a way that reminds him of the days they were on base, whenever Andy did something particularly aggravating.  
  
Peepers leaves around four, and figuring it too late to return to work, not to mention awkward, drives home.  
  
As soon as he enters the building, he's pulled into another hug, a much stronger one, by Hater.  
  
"Peeps! You're ok!" he says cheerfully as he squeezes the life out of him, making him gasp and wheeze. Thankfully for his continued existence, he lets him go.  
  
"I'm fine. What did you think I was gonna disappear?"  
  
"Maybe. You don't have to be a meany about it." he says, sticking out his tongue. How childish, he thinks, resisting the urge to do the same.  
  
"I just had a personal matter to attend to."  
  
"Alright, **Lord** Peepers. Forget about us peasants, will ya?" he says, teasing, trying to ruffle his feathers. It works.  
  
"I was simply being professional."  
  
"Oh I'll show you professional. Ten bucks you can't bench press more than me."  
  
"You're on."

Peepers becomes ten dollars richer that day, grinning in triumph at Hater's awe-filled expression.

* * *

Hater's Totally Awesome Happy Peepers Smile Count: 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh thank you guys so much for all your nice comments! i really can not say how much they mean to me! i love all of you guys! <3 <3 <3


	9. No Repeats or Hesitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: reclaimed q-slur in here

A few days after the Incident, it became clear it wasn't much of an incident at all. Peepers explained he'd left because someone close to him needed help, but would probably be ok now. This hushed any whisperings and questions in their tracks, just enough of an answer to satisfy.  
  
There was the grief to be reckoned, mourning the man that brightened his mens' days so much. But it wasn't so hard as the other, more like when his grandfather had passed away. Of course he was sad, didn't want him to be gone, but he was. So he cried his tears and went on to remember him with a fondness every once in a while. Now Andy's was more bitter, more unfair, since it wasn't inevitable, since it wasn't expected. But he had known the risks, far more than any soldier behind a gun. All he had was words. Powerful as they were, paper burns.  
  
There were two texts from Bean, the first so he'd have the number, and a second saying he'd set up an appointment with Wander. Perhaps this would be the last he heard from him. Maybe it was just the start. Whatever it was, at least it was in his hands now.  
  
Peepers had done all he could.

* * *

Later in the day, as the computer whirred over his check of the atmospheric conditions of F8-1250, aka Flendar, an advertisement from PBS caught his eye. With excitement he stood on his chair and poked his head over the cubicle wall, calling his name so he would stop his jamming session.

"Hater. Haaaaterrr." he says, stretching out the letters like putty, and he holds up a hand so he could finish the song before popping out the earbuds.  
  
"What?" he asks brusquely, looking slightly miffed but not angry, like he used to the first couple times he was interrupted.  
  
"Brian Cox is making a new series on PBS!" he says, practically vibrating in his joy.  
  
"Ugh, another one? Didn't he just finish up the Mars one?"  
  
"I liked that one!"  
  
"Eh. A bit tangenty, wasn't it?"  
  
"Cosmos is tangenty too, but you like that."  
  
"Cosmos was a work of television genius."  
  
"Ok, true. But the quantum episodes Cox did were pretty inspiring. Plus, he's **hot**."  
  
"Really?" Hater says, and Peepers finds his whole body going cold.  
  
Had he really just done that? Had he come out to his friend over some series? Hater didn't seem like a bigot, certainly not the obvious kind with the ranting. But he was very straight, if the tales of the girls he'd gone out with had any grain of truth in them. Was he going to be awkward now? Had he just ruined everything?  
  
"That's your type? Ugly sweaters and shaggy hair?" he continues, teasing, and Peepers feels a relief crash through him like a tidal wave. He didn't mind him being gay, just his choice in crushes. If only he knew.  
  
"No. It's just an objective fact. He's almost fifty and can still pull off skinny jeans. That's impressive."  
  
"The Ryan Seacrest of physicists." he says smugly, putting one of his earbuds back in, clearly done with this conversation. "Though I'm more of a Chris Hemsworth kind of guy. Those abs, you know? Damn."  
  
Peepers almost falls off his chair.  
  


* * *

His whole head is buzzing with this little scrap of information all afternoon. The implications of it were promising, but there was a chance, however slight, it had been a joke or a jab. There was no reason to think Hater was a homophobic jerkwad, as much as he could be insensitive and self-centered, he'd never been mean. There was only one real way of being certain, and he wasn't much fond of it.  
  
As they packed up for the day, Hater still stacking his papers into general order, if only so he could find them later, he dropped the question.  
  
"So just to be clear, I'm very gay. Is that cool?"  
  
"Uh, duh. I'm bisexual." he says, not looking up from his mission. "Used to have a pride earring but the piercing got infected. Though your taste in men needs some work." he says, finally finishing his goal, only to find a sniffling Peepers in his sight.  
  
"Are you ok? I was only joking about it man, you do you."  
  
"No, it's not that! I'm sorry. I was just...really worried." he admits, feeling that awful weak feeling whenever he got like this. He was a bit of a crybaby, and could only train it away so much.  
  
"You're the best friend I've got, I didn't want to lose you over...this."  
  
"I know the feeling." he says, all queer people did. That gnawing fear that if they found out, it would ruin everything. "But I think you're pretty cool. It would take something really bad for me to stop liking you. Like secretly being a crime lord or something. Although if I got a cut..." he muses, and gets a short laugh for his trouble. Those were still **really** rare, much more than the smiles he'd been counting, and always seemed to surprise Peepers as much as it did him. Hm, maybe that should be his next step.  
  
"Got it." he says, but his gaze is still not on him, stuck on his own shoes instead. "Can I have a hug?" He hasn't forgotten the one from a few days ago, which while bone-crushing, was also kind of nice. "Nevermind. It's stu-"  
  
He's cut off suddenly when being literally swept up in Hater's arms and into a noticeably less painful hug. It's still tight and warm though, which is a definite plus.  
  
"Dude, you don't have to ask the black Mexican from L.A. for a hug. It's practically currency."  
  
Hater isn't able to see this smile, hidden in his shoulder as he hugs back, but if he had, things might have gone a lot faster. Because there's such an adoration and care embedded in his eyes that denying it would be like denying the world was round.  
  
Not that there weren't some who would wish to.  
  


* * *

Mano Wong has been trying to not be a douchebag about this whole 'unrequited love' thing. After all, it was clear by now that Hater made Peeps happier than he'd been since getting here. But he wasn't immune to his feelings. It **hurt** seeing that expression of love on his face, because it wasn't for him.  
  
He'd sworn from day one he wasn't going to use his power as a supervisor to make things harder for them, even when tempted. But he hadn't promised anything about his role as Peepers' friend, if only from Wong's side.  
  
So as the two unwitting lovebirds walked towards the door, he called out.  
  
"Yo, Harry! There's somethin' I need you to clarify in these reports you sent me." he says, and dutifully he turned back towards him. He told Peeps to go on ahead, which he does after a moment of hesitation.  
  
"Yea, Wong?" he asks as the doors close, tired and disinterested. He can't blame him. It's been a long day.  
  
"Look. I'll be real with you, since I can tell you and I are the same types."  
  
"Oh?" he says flatly, disdain barely contained. Hater didn't like to think he was much like him at all, he was much too out of touch with their mission. Though he did have a sort of coolness ingrained from life-long popularity that he envied.   
  
"Peeps is a good guy. Going through some shit, and not very cuddly, but good. He likes you a lot. I don't really see it but hey, not my turf. But if you hurt him, I'll make sure it is. Capisce?" he says, smiling a too wide smile of sharp teeth.  
  
"I guess." he says, the real meaning of the conversation lost to him. Of course Peepers liked him. They were friends. That's how it worked.  
  
"Good. Be aware man, I've got a very small margin of error on this. He deserves all the world can give." he says, and on that they could certainly agree.  
  
His shovel talk complete and Hater out the door, he got back to work, or rather his favorite part of work. Planning office parties. This Halloween was going to be lit!  
  


* * *

"So what was that all about?" Peepers asks as they lean against the wall of the gym, sweaty and satisfied from their workout.  
  
"Nothin' really. Wong can't read my graphs. Apparently I 'use the wrong axis.'" he says, rolling his eyes. It was a complaint he had received at JPL, even though everything was technically correct, he just did it differently then most.  
  
"Did you know there's a part of a guy's neck you can hit and get him to pass out?" he says, sliding an arm over Peepers' shoulder.  
  
"Just one? I can think of at least six." he says, going off into details, but not removing the arm around him, which is all Hater really cares about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see? i can write chapters with no...er...limited pain! take that aaron!


	10. Hindenburg

  
They stare at the poster on the bulletin board. It's gaudy, black and neon orange, and glitter glints under florescent lights. It is foreign among the other announcements, prim and proper and dry. It draws the eyes of all who pass. Hater and Peepers are no exception.  
  
"An office party?" Peepers puzzles, since he has never known them. There were engagements sometimes, in the marines, formal events of black ties and dress shoes. This is clearly not of that caliber.  
  
"A **Halloween** party." Hater groans, with the long-held suffering of too many. "I hate Halloween parties. Someone always tries to pull off my face!" he says with a shudder.  
  
"Well then. We'll just not go." he says resolutely, ready to think no more about the matter.  
  
"Ha, good luck!" came a voice from the cubicle across from the bulletin board. His nameplate reads 'Bob', a grey-haired man of about fifty with a rather persistent cowlick. Peepers recognizes him from the few staff meetings as the sonographer.  
  
Bob is cramming all of his atmospheric charts into his desk as quickly as he can, and a glance down the row shows everyone else doing the same. It's disturbing, like they had all become fugitives from the law.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asks cautiously, not sure he wanted to know the answer.  
  
"Wong hands out this month's paychecks at the party. If you can afford to go a month without rent, good on ya. But we can't."  
  
"Ok, fine. But why are you hiding your work?  
  
Bob looks carefully back and forth before letting them come in, his voice a whisper.  
  
"Look, Wong gets...wild when it comes to parties. He and his SETI cronies always end up wrecking the place. I'm not having my data turned into confetti. Not this year." he says, locking the drawer with a click.  
  
Peepers and Hater share a look. Surely Bob was exaggerating. Still, they both made sure their more important papers were out of sight before leaving that day.  
  
A good call, as it happened.  


* * *

Peepers sighs heavily as he stares in the mirror hanging on his closet door. He had forgotten all about the infamous party until he got home. It was a costume one too, and knowing Wong he wouldn't budge on the matter. Thus he had to pull something together.  
  
It was sad really, that his high school cheer uniform still fits. The yellow and red are disgustingly bright, with a bleeding timberwolf on the front of the shirt. He's lucky at least, that they didn't wear skirts at his high school. For sexist reasons, but he'll take the loose track pants over some miniskirt any day.  
  
_**Carpool to the party?**_   he texts Hater, since they might actually be leaving around the same time for once. (Hater valued the hour extra sleep over beating the morning rush.)  
  
_**Sure. -H**_  
  
_**You have a costume?**_  
  
_**Sort of. Meet you in the lobby in five minutes. -H**_  
  
Sure enough, the good doctor arrives wearing a large, gloomy cloak, but is otherwise not dressed up.  
  
"What are you supposed to be?"  
  
"Grim reaper." he says, pointing at his face. "Might as well take advantage of the ink instead of covering it up."  
  
"And you just happened to own a big, villainous cloak."  
  
"It's warm. Also, I don't think you can talk." he says, looking at the outfit he's wearing, and he blushes.  
  
"It's from high school!" he protests as they walk towards Hater's van.  
  
"Didn't peg you as the cheerleader type."  
  
"I got my P.E. credit for it."  
  
"That I can see." he says, starting up the van, and the good-natured bickering is replaced by music, which Peepers automatically mumbles along to. He's memorized a lot of Hater's metal by sheer exposure. Though it does have a certain rockability, he supposed.  


* * *

The music at the party was not so fortunate. It was club music, loud and drum-heavy. Only a few minutes in and it was already giving Peepers a headache.  
  
"Let's get our money and get out of here!" he shouts, but the spot where Hater had been was now empty.  
  
He does tower over the other employees though, so finding him isn't hard. No the trouble is getting to him, navigating the mass of squirming bodies on a makeshift dance floor, dominated by none other than Wong.  
  
He is a good dancer, of a crude variety, which the lack of shirt emphasizes plainly. As much as he'd rather avoid him, Wong's the only one who knows where their paychecks are. So he trudges towards him, only to get pulled into his circle.  
  
"Hey Peeps! Glad you made it!" he says, not stopping his movement, making him stumble along.  
  
"Where are our paychecks?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"WHERE ARE OUR PAYCHECKS?!" he yells, so loud his throat scratches.  
  
"Aw come on, have a little fun! Relax, C. Man." he says, still spinning him, and when his feet touch the ground the world is a blur of orange-black-red, and everything is ringing, ringing: the drums go boom, boom, BOOM! It's too much for his wire-tuned brain, so it snaps.  
  
His eye goes glassy, unfocused, and he takes a few steps before his knees crumple under him.  


* * *

Peepers wakes up somewhere quiet, warm, and...soft? He blinks open his eye, scanning his surroundings. It's a bedroom of some kind, a messy one, with dirty clothes and dishes scattered everywhere. There's a video game system taking up one wall, posters of metal bands hanging at skewed angles.  
  
He looks up and finds his suspicions confirmed. Hater is holding him, arms wrapped loosely around his torso, brow furrowed in a pensive expression.  
  
"Hater?" he says, voice cracking halfway through, like he was some nervous fourteen year old.  
  
"Hey there, Peeps." he says, looking down at him, deep thoughts banished for a gentle smile.  
  
"What happened?" he asks, the memories fuzzy and unfocused.  
  
"You passed out at the party. Gave everyone a scare. If I don't have a job tomorrow, it's because I chewed out Wong." he says casually, but that doesn't stop it from jolting through Peepers' neurons like he'd just been slapped.  
  
"You did **what**?!"  
  
"It's ok! I was only joking. Not about chewing him out, but losing my job. He was frazzled, gave us both the day off tomorrow, but he's not going to fire me. I'm pretty great at my job. Plus, I've got good company." he says, looking at him with a softness you wouldn't think possible in a man like that, big and scary. It makes him blush.  
  
"So...what are you going to do?" Peepers asks, trying to gently work around to some kind of day together. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't think he could last a day all on his own.  
  
"During the day? I don't know. Once the sun sets, I'm going to the graveyard. Día de Muertos." he says, Spanish moving easily as water over his tongue. Peepers doesn't usually get to hear it beyond the occasional curse. His heart feels too warm in his chest, but it's nice.  
  
"You have family here?"  
  
"Nah. But someone's got to remember the poor saps without anyone. It's not their fault they're all alone." he says with a sigh, a heavy one that speaks of more. Peepers felt ashamed. He'd never really thought about what Hater had been through.  
  
"You know, I'm here for you too. If you want me."  
  
"Gracias." he says after a moment. "But that's a long story, and it's late." As if to punctuate the remark, he yawns, making his chest puff out.  
  
"We better be getting you home."  
  
"Can I stay? Just for tonight?"  
  
"I'm all for not moving. You should probably take that off though." he says, pointing to the patch.  
  
Peepers hesitates, scared of what he'll think, how he'll react. But he was already half asleep, lids drooping, and if anyone had earned his trust, it was Hater.  
  
He unties the knots, letting the fabric fall. It's not a pretty sight. Jagged scar tissue runs across the lid and down his cheek, like the fake roads on Mars, and the socket is empty, tissue dug out to keep from infecting.  
  
Hater just smiles and yawns again, reaching for the lamp cord.  
  
"Night Peepers." he says, placing a lazy kiss to the top of his head, still holding him like some giant teddy bear. Not that he much minds.  
  
"Goodnight Hater. Sweet dreams." he says, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is oboeist3 if any of you have questions or want to cry about pearl, like i currently am.
> 
> edit: fixed the dates b/c im an idiot who forgot that day of the dead is on november 2nd


	11. Lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: alluded to child abuse, addiction, and violence

Even without the alarm, he wakes up at six am sharp. Another habit he'd adopted out of routine: robotic, planned. He slips out of Hater's arms, ready to earn his stay.  
  
Breakfast isn't so easy, Hater seems to live on frozen food and coffee, but there's enough eggs and flour to start pancakes, and some jam and butter to spread on it. As they sizzle on the stove, and coffee brews in the maker, he gathers dirty dishes from the bedroom, the living room, and a room filled with guitars and worn-out amps he's dubbing the music room.  
  
They join the dishes he used to prepare breakfast in the sink, which he fills with suds lets them sit for a while. Some of that food had been crusted for a while. He flips the pancakes onto a plate and sets them to cool before straightening up the living room, stacking up CDs in alphabetical order, since genre would be a bit redundant. There was a recording of the Planets in there, which he decides to put on. Low voices bleed with strings as the coffee maker beeps and he pours two mugs, the biggest he could find for Hater, and a regular for himself.  
  
He puts three of the pancakes onto a fresh plate, they're a bit on the small side, and carries the whole ensemble to Hater's room. At his knock he receives a typical early morning groan, so he figures that means he's awake.  
  
"I made you breakfast." he whispers, sliding the plate and toppings onto the bedside table. The man grunts and curls up tighter in the covers, mumbling something like 'fivemoreminutes.'  
  
"There's coffee too. Black, just like at work. Try to drink it before it gets cold, ok?"  
  
There's a grunt that might be affirmative, so Peepers decides to take his leave. He eats his own pancake, always preferring his breakfast light, and sips the coffee as Venus plays in the background. Hm, maybe he ought to get the Planets for himself. It was awfully relaxing.  
  
After eating, he really gets down to washing the dishes, scrubbing off the worst of the gunk before putting them in the dishwasher for an all around clean.  
  
He's just putting the last fork in the tray when Hater stumbles out of his room, slightly more awake, if not happy about it.  
  
"Thanks for the breakfast." he says, putting the plate in the dishwasher without rinsing it, which makes him twitch a little, but it's **fine** , it's just a -  
  
"No problem." he says, rinsing off the dish himself. Fuck compulsions. Hater raises an eyebrow at the action, but doesn't say anything.  
  
"Jeez, you don't waste time, do ya?" he says, looking around at the relatively clean main area. "You don't do this every morning, right?"  
  
"No." he says, which isn't untrue. His apartment never gets this dirty.  
  
"Huh. Well Imma take a shower. You can take one after, if you want."  
  
"No thank you. I'll take it at mine. That's where my clothes are."  
  
"Fair enough." he says, and trudges off to the bathroom.  
  
Peepers does intend to go back to his apartment, but first, he has to do something about Hater's room. He piles all the dirty clothes in a basket, throws away trash, and alphabetizes his video games. He'd like to vacuum the floor too, but that might be a bit far, even for him.  
  
So instead he writes a thank you note, as was proper, and slips out the door.  
  
Hater's apartment is on the sixth floor, so it isn't a trek to get back to his own. There he does his usual morning activities, sans breakfast, ending with the tying of an eyepatch over his eye.  
  
He remembers that he left his other one there, and not eager to lose such an important part of his wardrobe, decides to go back and retrieve it.  
  
The man that opens the door this time is much more awake, his curly puff of hair still wet from the shower.  
  
"Hey Peeps. Nice shirt." he says, which makes him feel proud. Most people didn't understand his Graham's Number shirt as what it was. But Hater was not most people.  
  
"Sorry to bother you on your day off." he says as he steps inside. The Planets is still playing in the background, on Neptune now. "I left my patch here."  
  
"It's your day off too." he points out. "I think I put it on the island." Sure enough, that's where it is, and is easily slipped into his back pocket.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Peepers asks,  curious and still hoping somehow he could work into his plans, even if he had to clean his whole apartment to do so.  
  
"I don't know. Play some video games. Maybe work on my songs. Buy some marigolds for tonight. What about you?"  
  
"Taxes, probably. I'm a bit behind schedule."  
  
"Dude, that's kind of sad. It's November."  
  
"I've got nothing else to do." he admits, too productive for his own good sometimes. All the chores were done, bills handled. In theory he could just chill but...he wasn't very good at that. He always ended up remembering.  
  
"Hang out with me then. I need someone to beta this latest track anyway." he says, walking towards the music room, and Peepers certainly wasn't going to say no.  
  


* * *

Peepers didn't consider himself much of a music expert, but Hater's was very well...shouty, mostly. The words were garbled and not meant to be lyrical. It was all about emotion, and it did get the anger across, which he told him.  
  
"Thanks. Metal's easier than most people think. It's all about what you feel, and vocal range. That just takes some training. Rock though? That takes some brains." he says, flopping into the floor with a sigh. He plucks at the strings half-heartedly, years of practice making it seem easy.  
  
"He was a boy, she was a girl, can I make it any more obvious?" he sings, before rolling his eyes. "Straight people, huh?"  
  
"Amen."  
  
"He was a punk, and **he** did ballet. What more can I say?" he continues with a sly little smile. "Does make the pronouns hard though."  
  
"I'm sure you'll figure it out."  
  
"Me? Ha! I don't know nothing about love."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Nothing worth singing about." he says, but he's lying. In a journal in his mattress he's tried, but not much rhymes with Peepers.  
  
"Well, you can't force the creative process. Want to play Smash? I'll let you get first pick."  
  


* * *

"Motherfucker! You can't just eat me and jump off the edge Peeps! That's not fair!"  
  
"I won, didn't I?"  
  
"You won't be for long!" he swears, clicking the restart button. He's wrong about that though, Peepers continues to dominate, until the fifth game where he 'accidentally' walks off the edge.  
  
The gloating was worth it to see him happy again.  
  


* * *

It seems only a second before an alarm on Hater's phone reminds him he has to go get marigolds for tonight, and with a heavy heart Peepers prepares to leave.  
  
"You can come with me, if you want."  
  
"Are you sure? It's a personal thing, isn't it?"  
  
"Yea, but you're my friend. Who better to remember with?"  
  
Well, there was no saying no to that, even if he wanted to.  
  
The flower shop was aglow with yellow-orange flowers, like a sun all on its own. There were others as well, dapples of purple and red and green, but they seemed tiny in comparison. Hater purchased a bouquet of them, fragile beams of sunlight in his hands as they walked to the graveyard.  
  
It was a massive plot of land, covered in grey stones and bigger monuments. Other Mexican families were bringing in candles, photographs, piles of muertos the kids weren't to touch, and hundreds and hundreds of marigolds. It was quite a sight to see, all those people weaving among the gravestones, talking and laughing and being happy in a place usually so gloomy.  
  
"Is it always like this?" he says breathlessly.  
  
"Back in L.A. it's bigger." he says as they walk past, occasionally waving or throwing out an hola. He makes a scary face when some kids stare at him, and they burst into giggles and screams of joy, running back to their mothers.  
  
"It's wonderful." he says, unable to stop looking around. It was all so **bright** , so joyous, even though there was sadness too.  
  
Peepers was so caught up in it all he didn't notice the man walking towards them until they crashed, falling to the dirt.  
  
"Sorry, I wasn't - Bean?" he says, and sure enough, the intrepid cameraman is there on the ground, holding some lilies.  
  
"Captain Johnson. It's good to see you again." he says, standing up and brushing off the dirt.  
  
"You too. How are things going?"  
  
"They're...going. I'm trying my best, but it's tough."  
  
"I know. Wander good for you?"  
  
"They remind me of him, sometimes. But maybe that's good. I don't want to ever forget him."  
  
Hater clears his throat.  
  
"Oh, sorry! Bean, this is Hater, my friend. Hater, Bean. We knew each other in Iraq."  
  
"Nice to meet you." Hater says, shaking his hand.  
  
"Likewise. I better get going. I'm not cut out for the festivities." he says, smiling weakly, and continues on his way.  
  
"Didn't know you kept up with your men so closely."  he says, looking back at the jittery man, now kneeling before a grave, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.  
  
"Bean's not one of mine. He's a reporter. Just lost his husband. He's who I went to see when I left early that time."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because no one should have to do that alone."  
  
They leave it at that.  
  


* * *

It's easy enough to see which graves have been unattended. Weeds grow over them, footpaths populated by tall grass. It's almost an adventure to reach them. Their names echo like a note in a rest, desperate.  
  
Sally Finch, eighteen. Charlie Webber, two. Anna and Alexander Hawthorne, twenty-seven and twenty-nine. Greta Baker, seventy-six. All of them had stories. But they were untold. Forgotten.  
  
It doesn't seem like enough, the marigolds among the weeds, but it's all two lonely men can really do.  
  
The last two are placed on a larger marker, a foreboding pyramid of black stone with worn gold lettering.  
  
Cyrus and Ella Null  
Loving parents  
Never forgotten.  
  
"Guess we've all got our own versions of never." Hater says, sitting on the ground in front of the grave. Peepers sits down next to him. He understands the sorrow in his voice, but he doesn't feel it. This was a sad place, but a necessary one. People die, and the missing can't go on forever.  
  
"My parents weren't there for me." he whispers, a secret among the ghosts. "Typical bad neighborhood stuff. He drank. She did coke. They hurt each other. They didn't hurt me, because they didn't remember I was there. I guess I was lucky that way." His knees are up to his chest, and he's staring at the grave like the words hurt him to see.  
  
"Hater. You don't have to talk about this." he says, placing an hand on his arm.  
  
"I **want** to. Well, no, I don't. But I want you to know why this is so important to me."  
  
"Then I'll listen." he says, moving the hand down to one of his and holding it.  
  
A small nod. A deep breath.  
  
"I didn't tell anyone. He wasn't documented, and things wouldn't be any better where they put me. Besides, they were still my parents, even if I wasn't their son. Sometimes, on really bad days, they'd throw me out. They didn't have any kids, they'd say. Soon I learnt not to bother reasoning with them." he says, his voice resigned, as if he was talking about something inevitable.  
  
"People say you die twice. Once, when your soul leaves your body. Once when everyone forgets your name. No one said it had to be in order." he says, more bitterly, salt still in that healing wound.  
  
"Look, I can't stop people from leaving. No one can, and it sucks. But as long as we remember them, none of them really die. Not Sally or Charlie or Greta. Not Cyrus or Ella. Even if it's just for one night, I'll be the one who puts flowers on their graves." he says, the strength of years of recovery in his voice, the kind of time Peepers hadn't had yet. But maybe he could, if he dared to remember.  
  
"His name was Westley, and he was a liar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: there's more fanart! thank you so much to @weirdbird-art on tumblr! they drew peeps in The Sweater and now i am dead 
> 
> (http://weirdbird-art.tumblr.com/post/147767783079/weirdbird-art-human-sketches-lord-hater-and)
> 
> edit II: THERES NO EARTH TRACK IN THE PLANETS AND I FEEL SILLY


	12. Know Thine Enemy

"His name was Westley, and he was a liar."  
  
The words do not come from Peepers as easily as they do from Hater. They never had, not in the months they had known each other. Hater could talk and talk about nothing, about everything, about the boring and the painful with a rush like electromagnetism, massless. But Peepers choose his words with the precision of a surgeon, of someone who knows them well. His words were lumbering, plesiosaurs washed up on dry land.  
  
Hater knew him well enough not to ask who Westley was or why he was a liar, knew that it was important to him, just as much as his admission had been for him, if not more so. He'd had the time to put his past in context. Peepers has not. His grief is fresh, blood still drying red to maroon.  
  
So he just squeezes the hand holding his, tethering him to the now. There's a drift to Peepers' trauma, a wobble threatening to liquify the contents within. From the extreme of nightmares to the little ticks he made himself need, clean dishes and organization.  
  
Captain Calvin Johnson was a man in recovery, climbing a mountain of mistakes, memories, and bad brain chemistry. Like Hell Hater wasn't going to give him a hand up. Even if the days at Base Camp were long and frustrating, each step up the slope was a step towards stability and more smiles to his counter.  
  
Which is pretty gay, he'll admit.  
  
They sit in the graveyard for a frankly ridiculous amount of time, so long that the late night winds steal the flames from candles one-by-one. Sleepy kids are piled into minivans, their parents' tears dried and replaced with smiles soft and sad.  
  
Hater has always been tentative in his belief in the supernatural, but he feels a hope far beyond his own capabilities as the creaking gates close behind them, and they walk home.

* * *

As the days grew shorter and the temperature finally started to mellow into a bearable zone, Hater found that Peepers was starting to open up about his past. Not in the way of most, not deliberate. It was scattered, puzzle pieces hidden among things in their work or fun. Only there if you were looking.  
  
Like that he had joined the Marines straight out of college, much to his mother's dismay. That he'd been promoted to Captain in 2008, the most ironic time for a move up, he had called it. That he hadn't left Iraq for more than three months in almost a decade, but he still hadn't learnt any Arabic or Kurdish.  
  
"Our translators were damn good at their job." he'd said when Hater raised a brow. "I'm shit with languages anyway."  
  
But it's almost more satisfying to learn the domestic things about him, the things not tied to his past with such heavy string.  
  
He likes his coffee with two sugars and one creamer. He can't handle anything spicy. He reads trashy romance novels. He has a Slytherin scarf in his wardrobe. His strategy in Smash Bros is very complicated and unfairly efficient for a guy who's never played video games before.  
  
With each scrap of information Hater gets, he feels proud. Peepers isn't secretive, but he's efficient. He doesn't share more information than he needs to, and his personality is a mystery to most of those around him. All they know is that he's good at his job. But he trusts him with the mundane, with the things that define him as a person, not just as a worker or citizen or veteran.  
  
There's a downside to the noticing, though. It makes the little crush in his chest swell to uncomfortable proportions, makes it hurt. Every time he sees him mussing up his hair when magnetic fields or something else about Earth fucks with their data, or how he bounces on his tiptoes when he's excited, or the way his hands are always gesturing as he explains something, pointing to mental diagrams, it's **painful**. Because he can't tell him the extent of his feelings. Romantic relationships don't work when you're still fixing yourself. Hater had learnt that the hard way.  
  
Aside from the obvious fact that Peepers didn't seem to have any feelings for him, he has his own baggage. Sure, it was more neatly stacked than his recovering lab partner, but it wasn't fair to dump his own past, his own weaknesses, doubt, and struggles onto an already struggling Atlas.  
  
So Hater loves from the sideline, treasures each moment they have, smothers the urge to kiss him mid-sentence. Counts smiles, and only occasionally allows himself to steal away to the land of if-only.

* * *

Peepers is completely fucked.  
  
For once it was not the storm of bullshit that was his mental health doing it. That was getting better, in a jagged, spiky kind of way. No, his brain was tempering out as well as could be expected. It was his heart that was the problem.  
  
He's fallen for Hater. Like, head-over-heels, daydreaming, **pining**. It's making him mad. Though that's not an uncommon reaction, with the way it's hot wired into his nervous system.  
  
Peepers can recite a grocery list of his flaws: stubborn, arrogant, a sore winner **and** a sore loser, not to mention completely disorganized! But he's also nice, smart, with a laugh like thunder and an unshakeable determination. He pouts when he's frustrated, cheers when he succeeds. He's musical, beautiful, and unfairly hot.  
  
Fuck.  
  
In theory, there's nothing stopping him from asking him on a date. He's bi, he's single, he hasn't shown any signs of not liking him. Of course, communism worked in theory too, but cratered miserably in practice.  
  
Anxiety disorders are really great at pushing out unlikely but compelling reasons not to do something, and he had already piled up several, though only one that could not be at least partially swayed.  
  
Peepers didn't want to lose him. Romantic relationships had a way of spiraling, crashing and burning, demolishing real bonds. He could afford to stitch up a bleeding heart. He couldn't lose his best friend.

* * *

They're left in a collapsing orbit of a relationship, getting closer and closer but never quite touching. It could take a thousand years for it to fully disintegrate.

But it only takes a nudge to make things collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my writing process: [[lmm voice]] come on brain think of things be so smart


	13. Conjuction

The call comes around ten in the morning on a windblown Saturday, a time where Hater is technically awake but not quite functional at any sort of work capacity. It's enough for toaster strudels and reality TV binges, which is all he needs. Or, so he had thought. The number isn't plugged into his phone, but not many are, so he answers it anyway.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Good morning. Is this Mr. Harold Martinez speaking?"  
  
"Doctor, but yes." he says, not because he much cares about the title his years of post-grad research earned him, but because it spooked telemarketers so fast he didn't even have to bother hanging up.  
  
"My apologies, doctor. I'm calling from Memorial Herman Medical Center. You are listed as the emergency contact for a Calvin Johnson."  
  
Hater feels his entire body freeze, stiffen faster than deposition. He doesn't hear Peepers' legal name often, but he knows what it is.  
  
Knows that hearing it from a hospital is terrifying.  
  
"Is he ok?!" he says frantically as he paws around for his car keys, even though he has no clue where the hospital is yet, every second is a precious one that he can not waste.  
  
"Frankly, sir, I don't know. He made the call to 911 himself, and was admitted around a half hour ago. He should still be in ER."  
  
"Ok. I'll be there as soon as I can." he says, hanging up and immediately plugging the hospital into Google Maps. He growls as it loads slowly, pulling his hoodie on over his pajamas, no time to change, and rushes towards his van.  
  
The entire city seems to be conspiring against him, traffic moving dangerously slow, and he decides to risk the fine and pull into the carpool lane. This gets him to the hospital within the hour, though parking is still a nightmare. He sprints to the ER entrance, ending up in the waiting room with worried parents, significant others' crying, and vacant-eyed people of frequent visits.  
  
"I'm here for Calvin Johnson." he says to the conditioned woman at the front desk, a professional who sees his panicked expression as just another day on the job. She types something into her computer and it spits out a number.  
  
"He's in five, second from the end there. It says he's stable. You family?"  
  
"Husband." he lies, because he can't wait however arbitrary bullshit time the hospital set before he could see him, make sure that stable meant ok.  
  
The woman looks at him suspiciously, spouses tended to live with each other, and notice that they were gone, but for the concern in his eyes and no legal reason to keep him out, she lets him pass.  
  
When he gets to the area curtained off, he finds himself letting go of a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He has to be strong, be secure. He's not the one in the hospital, not for treatment anyway. He can't let himself fall apart by whatever he sees.  
  
As it happens though, it's not all that terrifying.  
  
Peepers is awake, fairly alert looking, and eating a jello cup. There's an IV stuck in his arm, and a heart monitor beeping, but it seems so much more mundane than what he had been anticipating. Not that he's complaining, hell no.  
  
"Hater?" he says, looking completely surprised by his presence. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"The hospital called. Said I was your emergency contact."  
  
"Fuck." he swears, the arm with the IV in it reaching for his hair, making him wince when the needle jabs him. "I forgot about that. I figured they'd only call if it was an emergency."  
  
"You're in the **emergency** room." he points out dryly, earning him a one armed shrug.  
  
"Only because admitting me isn't worth the hassle. I'm fine. They mostly fixed me up in the ambulance."  
  
Hater wonders, dully, how he hadn't noticed an ambulance pulling up to their apartment building, but pushes that aside.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"It's nothing. I had a rough night, so I was um...coping. Hit a major vein." he says, holding up the arm without an IV in it, and sure enough, from wrist to elbow, it's covered in white bandages. "Tried to stop the bleeding myself, but I couldn't. Figured it needed stitches. So I called 911. I'm only here because I'm still low on blood." he says casually, like it was an uninteresting star system they'd wasted too much time in. It makes Hater feel sick.  
  
He had known, of course, that Peepers had self-harmed in the past. Even faded, the scars were too parallel, too neat to be anything other than intentional. But Hater hasn't seen a wound a band-aid couldn't cover on his arms since he'd started working with him. He'd thought he was past that stage.  
  
"Why?" he hisses, fingers curled tightly against his palms. "Why didn't you text me? Why didn't you tell someone?!"  
  
"I didn't want to bother you. It was the weekend." he says calmly, as if that made any sense at all.  
  
"I sure as fuck would have rather you **bothered** me instead of getting a call from the fucking hospital! Jesus Christ, Calvin! I thought something really terrible had happened to you!"  
  
"I'm sorry." he says, looking like a withered plant, guilty eye trained on the paper thin sheet covering his torso. "I'm sorry, I just..."  
  
"Just what? Don't trust me? Don't think I can handle it? I've been through some tough shit, I can fucking handle it!" he snaps, but his rage halts when Peepers flinches, arms covering his face. He didn't mean to scare him. He was just worried. He never wants to be something he's afraid of.  
  
"I'm sorry." he says, voice much quieter. "I know you're still dealing with this... **whatever** that happened to you. I know it's hard to deal with, and you don't like thinking about it. But you've got to. This isn't something you can just ignore and it will go away."  
  
"I know. I know that, but...ugh. The last time I trusted someone with how I felt, they laughed at me. They hurt me." he says, pulling up his blood-splattered shirt to reveal a long, jagged scar, old and faded into the skin, but never gone. Never forgotten.  
  
"I can't lose you." Peepers confesses, says it like a fact as solid as general relativity. "I can handle the nightmares and the self-loathing and the suicidal thoughts on my own. But I can't lose you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me." he says, his voice trembling, eye tearing up. And though Peepers cried a lot, sometimes over nothing at all, these tears were heavier than lead.  
  
Hater doesn't even hesitate before going to his side, reaching carefully for his hand. It's a rough hand, calloused, and though they had held hands in the graveyard this time it's different. This time they both need something to hold onto.  
  
"You're not going to lose me. Even I died, I promise I'd come back and haunt you. Who else is going to make sure you get better taste in men?" he says, and it makes him laugh so hard that the machine capturing his heart rate jumps and the cot shakes. Eventually though, they die out, and he's left with a bright, watery smile.  
  
"Tell you what. We'll trade mistakes for sheep. I tell you something, you tell me something. One for one. Doesn't have to be about what happened. Just practicing for when you're ready. Sound good?"  
  
A nod.  
  
"Ok. I'll start. When I was in elementary school, I was accidentally sorted into one of those higher reading classes. We'd have to read a two-hundred page book over a month and make predictions about it. I thought that was bullshit. So instead, I'd just go to the library, check out the book, and read the whole thing. Easiest A I ever earned."  
  
"That's definitely cheating."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Wish I'd thought of it."  
  
"Hashtag: hood solutions. Alright, now you."  
  
"Um, ok. Let me think. If we're sticking with school, I've got a pretty good one."  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"Ok so. I never really played during recess since the only good thing was the swings and the Playground Mafia had complete control over that."  
  
"Playground Mafia."  
  
"It's a thing! Seriously, these big fifth graders that told everyone what was what. We were all scared as shit of them."  
  
"Never a problem for me."  
  
"Were you always huge?"  
  
"Kind of."  
  
"Well then of course you had no problems! We were a bunch of scared beanstalks, we had no power."  
  
"Is this is the moral of your story? Might makes right?"  
  
" **No** , but if you'd let me continue." he says, glaring at him, and getting only a toothy grin for his trouble.  
  
"Anyway, so instead of playing on the subpar equipment, I'd just read a book. Several, if I could."  
  
"Nerd."  
  
"Says the astrophysicist. Now, this worked fine until about third grade. Then came the Kickballers, Ballers for short. They were another group of fourth and fifth graders who, shocker, played dodgeball in the dirt field. My preferred reading place, the art portable, was right on the edge of the field. One day, I was doing my thing, reading, when a kickball knocked my book out of my hands, and these punks were snickering about it. At first, I figured fine, whatever. It was just an accident. But it kept happening. Sure, I could have moved, but this was the best reading spot in the whole playground. I was not giving it up."

"So I challenged them to a duel, or a match. If I won, they had to leave me alone. If they won, I'd move. Now, keep in mind I've never played kickball before. But I had read a lot about Newtonian physics. So they day comes, the whole playground is watching, waiting for me to fail. This is some sports movie level lack of support. But the ball rolls towards me, I kick it, and it hits the pitcher square in the face. While he's crying and everyone is in shock, I walk around the bases at my leisure. I win, but we both get sent to the principal's office. I just say it was an accident, and being a perfect kid, they believe me. But the kids know. It was no accident. So they leave me alone, and when I feel like swinging, I get a fucking swing."  
  
"Wow. You were a hardcore kid. That took a lot of...balls." he says with a over-the-top grin.

"I hate you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: both of those stories were based on my elementary school experiences


	14. Take a Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: alluded to racism/violence, minor classism, and the use of a homophobic slur (the f one)

Before Peepers can legitimately consider murdering his best friend, a wild-haired, sleep deprived attending stumbles through the curtain. He looks between the near empty IV and Peepers' clear alertness, peppered with animosity, and makes a decision.  
  
"I think you're good to go, Calvin. Be sure to drink lots of fluids, keep your blood sugar up, and not exercise for a few days." he says as he detaches the IV, placing a bandage over the tiny holes. "Oh and uh, stay away from the razors, yea? Says you called it in yourself so I'm not going to give the psych speech but in general, hurting yourself is a frowny face. Hope I don't see you again." he says, heading out to something more urgent and bloody.  
  
Peepers is still a bit wobbly as he stands, but Hater's slumped shoulders provide a great anchor for his whacked out balance. He tries not to be obviously smitten as an arm wraps around his waist, keeping him upright as they half walk, half hobble to Hater's van.  
  
"Ugh, thank the Lord we're out of there. Hospitals are depressing." Hater declares, stretching his spine back to its full length with a sigh of relief.  
  
"On that we can agree." he says, leaning back against the chair. It's strange, how much more comfortable almost any surface is to a hospital cot. Especially the seats of the old van, stuffed with something probably illegal in this age of sleek and safe.  
  
"So where do you want to go?" he says as he puts on his seatbelt, cracking his knuckles with painfully loud pops.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"For something to eat. I'll pay."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Dude, you just got out of the hospital. Treat yo'self a little. Plus, you heard the doctor. Gotta keep your blood sugar up."

* * *

They end up in a Whataburger, since Peepers has low treating himself standards, especially on someone else's dime, and their shakes are obnoxiously big. They haggle over the extent of what to order, between just the shake and lunch, and eventually settle on a shared large shake and fries. Both consider it a win.  
  
They poke around on their phones as they wait for food, but Peepers finds the world hasn't changed much in his absence. He does get an interesting alert on his work email though.  
  
"Hey, Hater. Flendar's in an article in the Times." he says, handing him the phone. He squints at the screen for a moment before nodding.  
  
"This journalist isn't a complete idiot." he concedes. "Right terms, not too sappy. Still interesting enough for the layperson. I give them props."  
  
"Did you see they printed my name first?" he points out, very proud of how he'd managed priority over such a cosmic hero as Hater. Though the journalist probably hasn't even cared.  
  
"Beauty before age." he says offhand, which shuts him up long enough for their order to arrive.  
  
Peepers takes the tall straw, because he's a hummingbird around food and drink, flitting, snatching. Hater has no such problem, he takes big slurps of the shake, maybe even more than his fair share, and shovels fries by the handful. It's fascinating, in a gross kind of way.  
  
They've just struck up a balance where Peep's side of the fries are protected from ravenous destruction when the door rings and two guys walk in. The veteran automatically places them, and finds it uninteresting.  
  
They were typical, annoying rich boys, all bark and no bite. They had jackets proclaiming allegiance to some prestigious private school, and they paid for their order with a card that glittered gold on black. They sit in a booth across from their table, but he has stopped paying attention. They weren't worth his time.  
  
"Bunch of lazy welfare fags. Using our tax dollars to pay for their fast food. Disgusting. They ought to be working." says one, obnoxiously loud. Hater stops slurping the shake.  
  
"Yea, yea. What, they think the world owes them something? You have to do your time, just like everyone else."  
  
Peepers personally doubts those two have worked a day in their lives, and even if they have, the words make his blood boil. Even though they're respectable scientists with good jobs, the fact that they would be so callous towards anyone based on first looks is repulsive to him. They don't know what a kind, brilliant, capable guy Hater is. All they see is the tattoos, and they assume.  
  
He's just about to march over and give these fuckers a piece of his mind when a hand on his arm stops him.  
  
"Don't bother." he says, seemingly unaffected. "We should get going anyway. Beat the rush." he says, walking out the door. This is odd for two reasons. One, Hater doesn't care about beating traffic. Two, he doesn't leave food behind. Not ever. Something weird is going on.  
  
When he leaves the W-shaped building, Hater's already in the van, waiting. As he slides into the passenger seat, he can still feel the anger heavy in his stomach.  
  
"How can you just take that?!" he says, rage splintering the words into sharp points.  
  
"I'm used to it."  
  
"But you shouldn't be! It's wrong!"  
  
"So what? We're not gonna change them."  
  
"I know but...gah! It's not right, it's not fair! You're amazing, and so many people will never know it because...because..."  
  
"Because I look like a felon."  
  
All of Peepers words fall to pieces at the stark summarization, harsher than he ever would have put it. But that was the Penn Dutch, famously polite. Even if it meant not saying it as it was.  
  
"Look, you're new to people judging you at first glance. I'm not. It's been happening my whole life." he says, and though he tries to be blunt, there's still bitterness there. "I've been working on my body art for about sixteen years now. Fifteen more than I counted for. You wanna know why I got the face tattoo? Some of it was symbolic, some cultural, but mostly? It was a big fuck you and fuck it. I wasn't going to make it long. A tall, scary black guy from East LA? I wasn't going to survive to adulthood."  
  
Peepers doesn't know what to say to that. He doubts anyone does. It's one thing to know, objectively, about the problems with race and class in America. It's quite another to hear it firsthand.  
  
"I'm glad you made it." Is what he settles on.  
  
"You and me both. Now let's go home, forget these chumps." he says, turning on the engine.  
  


* * *

"I'm never going to get used to how clean you keep this place." Hater says as they walk into Peepers' apartment, looking like a staged house on an HGTV show, down to a centerpiece on the coffee table.  
  
"Not all of us can live in a pool of their own filth." he teases, heading towards the bedroom to change out of his blood-splattered clothes.  
  
Hater stands in the doorway, being extra careful not to look at Peepers, though the man himself was completely desensitized to changing in front of other people. He feels that same rolling nausea from the hospital when he sees the stains in the sheets, already stripped from the frame and piled on the floor. There's a dull razor blade head resting sinisterly on the bedside table, dipped in crusted maroon.  
  
When he looks back at his friend, he sees a flicker of shame and guilt on his face before he pushes it down.  
  
"Sorry. I didn't want you to have to see this." he says, picking up the sheets and throwing them into his closet. He seems at a loss with what to do with the razor blade though, holding it in his hand like a seed of some awful plant.  
  
"It's ok. I don't think any less of you." he says, knowing that those few words would help the anxious hamster wheel in his brain settle down some. "I do wish you didn't feel like this. Can't you just...throw the razors out?"  
  
"I guess. I could just go out and get new ones though. Or use something else." he says, quiet but honest. "It does buy me some time. Wander, my therapist, they've been trying to get me to get rid of them. I don't even use them to shave, I have an electric one. It's just tough. It's addicting." he confesses.  
  
"Well, maybe don't get rid of all of them. Just some. I'm not gonna lie, I really don't like that you hurt yourself, especially bad enough to go to the hospital. But guilt doesn't work, it doesn't make you better."  
  
"I was clean. For two weeks, nothing. I was so proud of myself." he says, his voice trembling. "I thought I was really getting better." he says, sitting on the sheet less bed, his head in his hands.  
  
"You **are** getting better." he says, sitting next to him, careful to leave space in case he wanted it. "It's just hard for you to see, cause you're in it. Plus, it isn't a straight line. Relapses happen. They suck, but it's inevitable."  
  
"When did you get so smart about this?" he asks, looking at him with curiosity and something like hope.  
  
"Like I said, I've been through some shit. Been there, done that. It's a stupid sob story."  
  
"I don't think your story's stupid."  
  
"Thanks. But you've got enough on your plate already."  
  
"But who's there for you? Who tells you that you're getting better?" he asks, startling Hater. He's not really thought about that, not in a long time. Hasn't he paid his dues? The therapy, the pills, he's past all that.  
  
"I guess I don't need one anymore."  
  
"Oh." he says, sounding dejected. "I was hoping I could make it up to you. Be there for you too. But you're ok. You're not...you're not broken."  
  
"Neither are you. You're hurt, that's all. You're healing. Besides, just because I'm ok now, doesn't mean I always will be. I might need your help someday. Hopefully not, but if there's any guy I trust to help me get my shit together, it's you. You're pretty great at keeping things tidy."  
  
Hater doesn't know what he's expecting, but a tight hug isn't on the list. Peepers is always hesitant with his displays of affection, like he's scared he'll get hurt for it. But this isn't scared. It's warm and trusting and real.  
  
"I love you." he says, the words muffled by fabric. For a moment, Hater swears he feels his heart stop. A volcano of suppressed feelings is ready to blow it's top, because it's mutual, he doesn't have to hide anymore. Alas, that isn't the end.  
  
"You're a really great friend."  
  
Of course. That's what they are. Friends. People who trust and care for each other, want them to be happy. Nothing more. Just two friends. Two good friends. Sharing their lives together for the moment. Still, it isn't hard to say back, because it's true.  
  
"Love you too, Peeps."  
  
If only he knew how much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok on a serious note here.
> 
> I am white. I do not pretend to have any idea the true extent of what being black in America or anywhere else is like. I'm trying to write Hater as a complex character with all sorts of traits, flaws, strengths, etc. Being black is part of his character. It is not the biggest part, nor one that I intend to dive into much deeper, because that isn't my story to tell. But it is part of him, and I think that not talking about it reduces it as a tokenish quality, which is definitely not what I'm going for.
> 
> That being said, if I mess up on racial stuff or anything else, please tell me. I'm young, I'm learning, I will make mistakes. You don't have to forgive me my mistakes, but please tell me what I did wrong. I will apologize. I will try to fix it. If it isn't fixable, I will take the story down.
> 
> I'm trying out new horizons, more complicated stories, but the thing about complicated stories is that they have complicated issues in them. I'm doing my best to be respectful, but if I mess up, please just tell me directly. I will forever be grateful.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Oboeist3


	15. The Unimaginable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: internalized homophobia, mentions of hate-based violence

Telling Hater he loved him was an accident. It wasn't planned, wasn't thought out. The words just leaped out of him, breaking through the filters he'd built like rice paper. Peepers only barely managed to salvage things by making it unobtrusively friendly, the most 'no-homo' action he'd ever done in his entire life. Which was really saying something, with how long he's been in the closet.  
  
Avoiding discharge was crucial, and he had always been a private man, not inclined to nights out where women would be. Had it been a matter of hidden love, he might have been more angry about it. But he had given up that hope early on, and had only recently allowed it to flicker back on.  
  
Peepers didn't have a compelling gay story. He had known young, found out quickly that his feelings were not of the right kind, and so cut them out. He didn't allow himself to feel pity on that regard. In the last few years, he tried to be less, well, militant about it. Had tried to accept it more. But he had a feeling it would never be something he could be proud of, like he was supposed to.  
  
Not like Hater was.  
  
Ever since his easy admission about his bisexuality, he'd been open about it. Had made comments about actors' hotness, occasionally bemoaned the Straights and their nonsense, had made terrible bi puns. It was just as obnoxious and in-your-face as everything else about him.  
  
Peepers admired the hell out of him for it. Part of it was surely luck, being in arguably the state safest for people like them. But a good chunk of it was earned, stolen back from those who would try to shame him, if not directly than by societal design, by the assumptions. Of girlfriend, of wife, of children. Though for him, that was an option too.  
  
There was something in the Captain, something small but persistent, something he didn't like to look at too long. It whispers that Hater would be better off without him not because he's a mentally ill mess, or because he doesn't like him back. He's better off because he's still got a chance to be **normal**.

* * *

 

Peepers has been avoiding him, and Hater doesn't know why.  
  
The first few days after the hospital, he could understand. He'd been forced to share something deeply personal, something he'd admitted he didn't want Hater to know about. So he lets him have his space, only talking when absolutely necessary, letting him skip their lunches and naturally their daily exercise. But then it just didn't stop. Days turned to a week, to two, and Peepers was still keeping him at arm's length.  
  
Had he done something wrong? Hours of pondering and he still hasn't found something substantial. Besides, Peepers would just tell him, if it was anything all that important. He had a life philosophy of direct action to results, at least when it came to the professional side of things. Personally, he was a bit of a closed box, but only with the matters of yesterday.  
  
Hater felt hurt, not just at the avoidance itself, but that he couldn't be trusted with whatever caused it. He didn't expect a manifesto of his past, but he did think he had earned a right to be there for his present. And he was near certain that it was something from the now. For on the bad days, he smiled too much, bottled the feelings in paper-thin serenity. Now he wasn't smiling at all. He looked consistently miserable and frustrated, like he was fighting a battle with no good side.  
  
He didn't understand why he didn't want him to be his ally in this fight. It made him angry and frustrated and scared. The feelings arced out of him in waves of impatience, malice, and an even shorter fuse.  
  
So when he sits down for his eleventh lunch alone and an unsuspecting intern sits next to him, cheerfully saying how it was an honor and a privilege to meet him, and hey maybe he could give him a recommendation, he snaps.  
  
"Vete!" he commands, rising to his full height and pointing to the door, and the intern stutters and whimpers and ends up running into the wall. Not that he sees it, with his face flat on the table like some overwhelmed college freshman.  
  
The man who's job it was to keep order decides this has gone on long enough.  
  
"Dr. Martinez. Come see me in my office." Wong says, and the entire office shudders with the fear of the unknown. A serious Mano Wong was not a sight any of them had seen in...well **ever**.  
  
Hater breathes out a long sigh, but he doesn't really care. Even if he fired him, what would it matter? Without Peepers at his side, this job wasn't interesting at all. Everything was dull and gray.  
  
He shuffles into his boss's office, shoulders slumped, eyes trained straight ahead. If he is being thrown out, he'll at least stare down the man doing it. He's not a coward.  
  
"Alright, spill." Wong says, leaning back in his chair, feet balanced on the desk.  
  
"I, what?"  
  
"Spill. Something's going on with you, and I know it's not just that pushy intern."  
  
"It's nothing. I'll apologize to him. Write him a recommendation. Whatever." he says, trying to get out of this. He certainly doesn't want to tell this asshole what was going on.  
  
"Nothing, huh? You think just cause I've got this fancy office that I'm **blind**? Something's going on between you and Peepers, something bad enough to affect your work. It's been clumsy lately." he says, picking up a pile of papers from his desk. "Repeated information, different opinions on the same system. Have you even been **talking** to each other?!"  
  
"No." he admits sulkily. "We haven't been."  
  
"Look," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what's going on with you guys. Frankly, I don't wanna. But whatever personal rollercoaster you're riding, get off it. I can give you some slack, since you've had a pretty awesome precedent. But if you don't get me something concrete by the end of the month, I will fire you."  
  
"Both of us?"  
  
"Uh, yea. That's the thing about partners, you've got to be there for each other. So, might I add, do friends." he says, his words cutting as a sharp knife. "He's down in the physical records, reorganizing the seventies data. I suggest you join him."  
  


* * *

Peepers isn't sure why he's avoiding Hater either. He was still ashamed about how he had been called to the hospital, had seen how broken he truly was. But that seemed insignificant next to his own cowardice, his inability to confess his feelings. Even unreciprocated, Hater wouldn't despise him for it. He said he would come back from the **dead** to help him. What were a few misplaced feelings?  
  
Still, he's scared. Scratch that, fucking terrified. To lose him was to be alone again, so if - when - it happens, he has to be ready for the ache of it.  
  
He practices for the storm to come.  
  
The records are a soothing place, a reprieve from seeing the confused hurt on Hater's face. The routine of digitizing the past, slow and meticulous, eases the stress from his shoulders. He even spares a laugh at some of the doodles among the information, laser-gun bearing aliens of giant eyes, cute but ineffective to an extreme.  
  
It dies in his throat when he sees Hater in the door, biting his lip, fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie.  
  
"We need to talk, Peepers."  
  
 _This is it_. he thinks dully, like his brain is submerged in water. _This is where it ends._  
  
"I'm sorry. I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. Please let me try to fix it."  
  
Wait. What?  
  
"You didn't do anything wrong." he says, as he stands up, words laced with confusion, completely baffled.  
  
"Then why have you been avoiding me? Why aren't you talking to me?"  
  
"I thought...I don't know. That you would hate me."  
  
"For what?! The hospital? I told you, I don't like it, but that's because I care about you! I don't want you to want to hurt yourself!" he says, frustrated.  
  
"It's not about that."  
  
"Then **what**?! Talk to me, Peepers. Tell me what's going on!"  
  
"I like you, ok!" he says, slapping a hand over his mouth, but it's too late. The words are out there. He knows.  
  
"Well, I should fucking hope so! You're my best friend!"  
  
"No, Hater. I **like** you. As more than that." he confesses, and despite all the worry about what this admission will bring, it's still a relief to let go.  
  
"Oh." he says, finally getting it.  
  
"I'm sorry." he says heavily. "I know you deserve better. I know you don't think of me like that. Please, just...not the face, ok? I need it to see." he says, waiting for inevitable fist.  
  
Instead, fingers brush gently over his cheek, and when he tears his gaze from the floor, Hater's looking at him with a mix of sorrow and affection so deep it seems infinite.  
  
"Peeps, you need to tell that brain of yours to shut up." he says, and kisses him.  
  
It's soft and sweet and as light as gossamer, a little nervous but certain as time and space are linked together. It only lasts a second, maybe two, but it's enough to make Peepers feel woozy with adoration. Luckily, Hater's other hand is there to steady him.  
  
"That was....definitely better than last time."  
  
"What happened last time?"  
  
"I got stabbed. Literally. With a switchblade."  
  
"Jesus Christ."  
  
"Yea. I have bad taste in men."  
  
"Not completely." he says cheekily, grinning wide and placing a kiss on his forehead.  
  
"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" he says with a piano-wire laugh, fingers gripping at his sweater, feeling elated and foolish all at once. Tears drip like reactor cell leaks down his face, but he's never been happier.  
  
"Maybe a little." Hater says, with a smile that's bittersweet and soft. "I forgive you."  
  
Peepers is overwhelmed with relief, with love, with joy. An excited particle finally finding a bond. He's never felt so completely alive as he does in this moment.  
  
"Kiss me again?"  
  
"Well. If you insist."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a mess and so am i but who cares b/c THEY FINALLY KISSED! only took fifteen chapters, a hell of a lot of mental illness fuckery, and terrible communication skills, but we made it folks. not that this is anywhere near the end, oh no. this is only the beginning my darling readers. 
> 
> sadly TIL will be on hiatus for at least the next three days, but i will be back with more of these gay ass nerds asap. promise. 
> 
> have a nice day! :D


	16. Minor Difficulties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: reclaimed q-slur

Mano Wong isn't there to see the Big Moment, nor even the direct aftermath. But he does see **something** through the crack in his door when the two return to their stations. They're not rumpled or sheepish, so there wasn't any making out or a quickie between the stacks. Not that it would have mattered anyway, since he'd digitized the seventies data himself almost two years ago. But when Peepers had come into his office with a desperate plea in his eye, Wong was unable to deny him.  
  
No the **something** is not easily seen, but he didn't get where he was today going the easy way, so he does. Even so, it's not an immediate thing to place. It's happy, certainly, since the days of gloom have been shed from their bodies like rain off a slicker. But it's not simple, not as all-encompassing as joy or excitement. Wong realizes with a start that it's relief. From what doesn't take much speculation.  
  
It's obvious from the way they're looking at each other now, the burden of worry dissipated, their separate secrets traded in for one new and hapless one.  
  
Young love.  
  
Not in the men who held it, though not even the doctor was quite to middle-age, but in its tentative first steps, its appearance into daylight.  
  
Wong had learned many things across his twenty-seven years: how to search for weak signals, analyze slews of overnight data, and even make a damn good spreadsheet. But he's only just learned that you can be overjoyed and heartbroken at the same time. It feels a bit like drinking an energy drink after a shot, jittery but depressing. He's so fucking happy for them, sincerely, he is! That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell.  
  
He'll admit it was a shallow love, since Peepers wasn't much for sharing. He saw only the strong side of him, the efficient soldier back from duty, and occasionally the passionate scientist. He knew from the doctor's notes that he was still fighting the good fight, but the extent of it was farther away than the edge of the observable universe. Maybe that was good. Peepers seemed to loathe his very existence anyhow. Which wasn't an uncommon reaction, but it was never fun.  
  
Wong was the kind of guy that people either loved or hated, and he'd lost the coin toss with Peepers.  
  
As if to confirm his theory, by closing time the duo's report comes in. It's neat and succinct and contingencies are listed in an orderly fashion. The partners are back together.  
  
"Mission accomplished." he says, and weeps.  
  


* * *

Dr. Iviticus Albert, better known as Wander, since the fancy Greek names weren't their style, wasn't happy. This was unusual, in fact, the dips of sorrow amid their long, illustrious life could probably be counted on one hand.  
  
They were forty-six, a born and raised kid of Appalachia, and had aged very little in such time. They were physically fit, if not quite as bendy as back in the day. The spider-web wrinkles fit so naturally on their face that they hardly seemed to connect to age. They were even carded sometimes, when grabbing a five dollar wine for a night in of movies with Syl, which tickled them pink.  
  
Wander had always been a nomadic sort, bouncing around the world, helping folks, especially kids, and while they'd do anything if asked, they soon found their talent was in taming inner demons. They themself had struggled with fits of mania, hallucinations, and compulsions. The people back in their tiny town had no words for their erratic personality and symptoms, nothing nice anyhow, and of all the places they miss sometimes, that wasn't one of them.  
  
Settling down was hard on them. They were quite content to continue traveling until Death finally came a'knocking. But times were getting tougher, the jobs paid less, and though they weren't a material person, food was somethin' they did enjoy having. So they finished up their doctorate, the credits scattered across at least fourteen schools and six continents, and went where land was cheap and people needed help.  
  
That isnt what's bothering them though. Wander recognizes the inevitable reality of their retirement from exploration. They'd seen more than most ever did, and if they did well enough at this, maybe they could spend the twilight days back under different stars. No, their sadness was because of Jeff.  
  
Jeff Jackson, to be specific. They had met in a seedy bar in California almost two decades ago, the kind of place you were likely to get your skull bashed in. He was the singer of the band on stage, 90 Oz Nihilists, who screamed lyrics of pain and anger and loneliness with such volume to make the floor shake.  
  
Wander had never wanted to help anyone as they wanted to help Jeff be happy. So they bought him a drink, and the rest was history. They stayed with him longer than anyone else, sharing advice and kisses under the night sky, hiding from the world but making a nice, secret one of their own. But three years goes by awful fast when you're having fun. Soon, Jeff was going back to school, and they couldn't follow.  
  
"Just tell me to wait for you and I will." Wander told him, (though then they'd been known as Tumbleweed.) There were tears in their eyes as they stood at the airport terminal, their every possession stuffed in a green duffel bag.  
  
"No, Tumbleweed. I know you too well. You can't stand being held down. Things to do. People to help. New lovers to find." he says, holding their hand with a gentle kindness just as vast as his anger had been all those nights ago.  
  
It's the final crack in their already shoddy emotional dam.  
  
They kiss him, deep, and unafraid for the first time. Because it is 1989 and they're in California but growing up queer is growing up scared no matter what. But Jeff makes them feel brave.  
  
"I'll find you." they promise. "No matter what happens, I'll find you again."  
  
"I look forward to it."  
  
And they do meet again, in Peru, on the Solomon Islands, and one time in Kansas City, Missouri for a scientific conference. When they do, they talk about what they've been doing, every other sentence stopped with kisses but neither really minds. When they lose track of conversation altogether, giggles fill the spaces, and even the sex is more laughter then anything else.  
  
But that was years ago.  
  
There were others, of course. Other men they'd dated, all big, scary types with soft centers, most recently a rancher named Dan. But no matter how much Wander loved each and every one of their partners, none of them over came close to Jeff.  
  
Most of the time, they kept their outlook positive about it. What they'd had was good, maybe even more than they deserved, though they didn't much like to listen to that sort of reasoning. The distance had kept them apart, and that was Fate's plan. But this wasn't the case anymore. They were settled in Houston, in their woodsy office, in the stream of children who they helped and was helped by in return. There was nothing stopping them from contacting Jeff, now a professor at a dinky, underfunded community college in his childhood neighborhood.  
  
Nothing aside their own fears.  
  


* * *

Elizabeth "Beeza" Kondabolu likes her job. Really, she does. Helping people always made her feel happy, which was part of the reason of her employment by Wander. They didn't want someone who was only in it for the paycheck. But she'd freely admit it got a little boring sometimes. So she finds herself eavesdropping, picking up pieces of information about the patients.  
  
The kids were adorable, happily chattering about whatever suited their fancy within a few weeks. Dinosaurs was the reigning champ, according to her chicken-scratch chart. The few adults had more somber habits: spinning rings, constant grooming, tremors in their limbs that made the floor shake. With time, they too opened up, though never quite as much.  
  
Calvin Johnson was even more reserved than most. Very polite, of course. Regular in his habits. His posture never slumped in the waiting room chairs, and when Wander stuck their head in the door, he seemed half ready to stand at attention.  
  
Which is why today's actions seem so peculiar. He's pacing up and down the room, muttering words too garbled to be deciphered, looking at the door with anxiety. There are a few stitches in his wrist, but he isn't hiding them or looking ashamed, so she doesn't think that's it.  
  
Finally, Wander looks into the room, not exactly the picture of happiness they usually are. Oh it's subtle, but the smile doesn't quite reach their eyes, and there's a redness under poorly blended makeup. Calvin noticed it too, but before the question can leave his lips they're talking.  
  
"Calvin. Good to see you again. Those cuts healing up?"  
  
"They're doing fine, xir. But there's something else I want to talk about today."  
  
"Are you sure?" they say, raising a brow. "You know that repressing this could be bad, you know?"  
  
"I'm not. It's just..." he stops, looking around the empty waiting room, not even considering that Beeza might be listening in. Though really she shouldn't be, she's sure. "Hater kissed me."  
  
For a moment, all is silent. It's a very short moment though, because Wander is squealing in delight, pulling the vertically challenged marine off his feet and into their office, demanding to know everything.  
  
Beeza has a little smile herself. It was good that Calvin had met someone, even if it was complicated. The odd name somehow seems familiar though. Like she's heard it before.  
  
She's distracted from these thoughts by the buzz of her cellphone, a text from her girlfriend Emily. It's a picture of the black-haired girl, covered in suds and pointing accusingly at a big Rottweiler.  
  
_**someone didn't want to take a bath**_  
_**so she made me take it with her**_  
  
_**aww she's adorable!**_  
  
_**and im not? babe :'(((**_

 _ **yeah but that's obvious**_  
  
_**< 3 <3 <3**_  
  
_**hey do you have a client named hater?**_  
  
_**yea. big mexican guy. real softy. why?**_  
  
Beeza pauses for a second, not sure how much she should say, if any. Breaking patient confidentiality could get her fired. But in the end, her inner gossip won out.  
  
_**babe?**_  
  
_**im here**_  
_**apparently he kissed someone**_  
  
_**HOLY SHIT**_

 _ **I**_ _ **M CALLING HIM RN**_  
  
Beeza groans, her head thunking onto her keyboard, leaving a string of f's across the screen. _How very appropriate,_ she thinks, seeing as she was fucked.  
  
_**don't tell him i told you**_  
_**don't tell anyone i told you**_  
_**i wasn't even supposed to know**_  
  
The texts beg, which Emily has always been weak to.  
  
_**of course i wont!**_  
_**i love you too much to let you die like that**_  
  
_**love you too**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:
> 
> 6:15 PM
> 
> wait. what do you mean 'like that'
> 
> well im counting on the fact we'll grow old together
> 
> that's really gay
> 
> i hate to break it to but...  
> you're a lesbian
> 
> lesbian? i thought she was from pakistan!
> 
> how are you so cute
> 
> it's a skill
> 
> it is  
> <3
> 
> <3


	17. Lavender

Hater's first response to his phone vibrating under his pillow during his precious last hour of sleep is to groan loudly. His second is to fumble around for it to make it stop. When he finally manages to find it, the number on the screen makes him wake up faster than a shot of adrenaline.  
  
"Ripov?" he says, confused and scared. She wouldn't call him so early if it wasn't important. "Did something happen to Timmy? Is he sick? Did you take him to the vet?"  
  
"Hey, hey, cool your jets! Your little destroying machine is fine as ever." she says, voice caught somewhere between annoyance and fondness. That's progress.  
  
"Oh. Then what do you want?" he says, perhaps a little snappy. It's early in the morning, at least by his standards. Cut him a break. Plus, Ripov should know this by now.  
  
"You know, you're a shit friend, Hater. I look after that bundle of teeth and fur for **free** for you, and yet you're about as cuddly as an eel."  
  
"Well you aren't exactly prime rib, are you Rip? A desolate drunk who likes dogs more than people." he says, but there's nothing harsh in his words. This was just how they were, hardened by life. The route of direct emotion wasn't their style. So they poked, and said horrible things to each other, but at the end of the day, he'd take a bullet for her, and she would too.  
  
"Former drunk. I'm getting better." she says, and the smirk is practically visible even over the phone.  
  
"All thanks to that girl of yours, I bet."  
  
"She doesn't like how it makes my mouth taste. Kisses are a good currency. Speaking of which, I've got intel that you're in the market."  
  
Hater feels his mouth go dry.  
  
"Oh? From who?"  
  
"You're avoiding the question, Hater. Come on, I'm an old pal! You can trust me."  
  
"With my life, yes. With my dog, absolutely. With my love life, hell fucking no. You'd never let me live it down."  
  
"Why? Your standards gotten **worse** since high school?"  
  
"How was I supposed to know she ran an illegal firearms ring?!"  
  
"She went to our high school. Don't keep changing the subject. I want a name."  
  
"What, you gonna track him down? Give him the shovel talk?"  
  
"So it's a guy?!" she says triumphantly. "Well, you never were good at keeping that secret, Hater. All that time at the gym, not to mention your terrible crush on M-"  
  
"If I tell you, will you leave me alone about it?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"He and I work together. He's the chromatography expert. Terrible with computers though. Like really bad. Black hair, short, got a temper, but he's...he's a great guy, ok? A bit messed up, like you."  
  
"Not hearing a name."  
  
"Calvin Johnson. But everyone calls him-"  
  
"Peepers."  
  
"Do you know him?" Hater asks, completely surprised. Even he had more of a social presence than Ripov. She's never been one for people.  
  
"When I came back, they made me go to some mandatory therapy sessions. Typical lovey-dovey horseshit. All the amputees got stuck together. Wanted us to talk it out. As if that would help the missing feeling." she says with a scoff. "He was very dry about it. Said there was an attack on their base, and he was collateral. But there was something there. Something way more than just losing a limb, or an eye. I look it up later and turns out there was a casualty in that attack. A kid hero. Westley Zvezda. Was only nineteen years old."  
  
The little scrap of information give more insight into Peepers reasoning than his own words ever had. It should have been me, he had said in the observatory, with an utter conviction that was beyond heartbreaking. Then in the graveyard, saying his name. The name of a boy who was gone, and he thought it was his fault.  
  
"Look, the tours messed me up. More than I ever thought they would. But I'm tough. Life hasn't been easy for me, I didn't expect it to be fair. But this guy? He's damaged goods. He's likely to put a bullet in his brain within a year. If you aren't careful, he's going to take you down with him."  
  
"Not if I have anything to say about it." he declares, and hangs up.  


* * *

Peepers knew that Wander was going to be excited about the news, so full of love as they were, but he's not anticipating being literally swept off his feet and into their office. Stronger than they look, that's for sure.  
  
They're still vibrating like a too-tight string as he sits in the chair, barely holding back the stream of questions just dying to come  out. He decides to take pity on them. After all, he needs to talk to someone about it anyway.  
  
"You can ask."  
  
"How did it happen? Where? Was it romantic? Did you plan it? What kind of kiss? Did you kiss back?" they say, words sticking together like fly paper. It takes him a bit to decipher their meaning because of it.  
  
"Um, it's kind of a long story." he says, not really knowing how to properly answer.  
  
"Then tell it."  
  
So he does. He tells them about the day at the hospital, the encounter at Whataburger, the confession that wasn't among blood-stained sheets. He tells them about how he'd avoided him, thinking that his feelings were repulsive, and how he was wrong.  
  
"It wasn't my first kiss. But it was the first one that meant something." he admits, face flushing almost to maroon.  
  
"That was beautiful!" Wander says, voice watery as tears fell down their cheeks, the happy kind that showed up so often that Peepers was almost used to it. Almost.  
  
"Sooo, what's next? Do y'all have a date? Oooh there's this really good Italian place by the plaza, best pasta ever! You should definitely go sometime!" they say, wiping off the tears and beaming.  
  
"Well...we haven't really talked about it. At all. I'm too scared." he says, with a good chunk of self-loathing. "What happens when he gets bored with me? Or realizes I'm too much of a mess? He's so great, Wander, and I'm just me. Whatever he sees, it won't be there forever. Maybe I should just save myself the heartache."  
  
"Do you love him?" they say, unusually soft.  
  
"What?!" he splutters, not sure what he was expecting from his therapist, but it wasn't that.  
  
"Do you love him?"  
  
"I-I...what does it...even if I...." he says, but the steady look in their eyes forces the answer from him. "Yes."  
  
"Then don't give up before it's even begun. Love's a fickle thing, it's hard to find too often. I understand that you're scared. But if he's really all that great, he won't be hung up on the things you don't like about yourself. Maybe he even sees them as good. Calvin, losing someone is terrible. But it's **nothing** compared to giving them up." they say, with an aching conviction of experience.  
  
"We don't get a lot of second chances, Cal. Don't waste them." they say, and though they're speaking to him, there's something more in their voice. Like they're trying to convince themself of the fact too.  
  
"Ok. I'll talk to him about it. But if it doesn't work out?"  
  
"Then he'll just be a boy. If he's anything like you say, I think it'll all work out. Silence left to its own breeds silence though. Talk about it. About what scares you, and about what matters. Regret fades. Longing doesn't." they say, biting their lip. It's clear they're trying to be strong, but there is a past looming in these words. Something dark and terrible.  
  
"Ok. Um, can I ask? Who did you give up?"  
  
"Just a boy, I thought. A boy with a band that didn't like himself very much. I wanted to help him, but when he was better, I found that I needed him. Found out too late." they say, their smile like barbed wire. "Sorry, you're not my therapist. I shouldn't be-"  
  
"No. You're my friend." he says. "If - when I get better, maybe I can help. I'm pretty smart, apparently."  
  
Their smile turns soft, and the tears well back up, but don't quite make it to falling.  
  
"You're a good man, Calvin Johnson."  
  
"Thanks. But my friends call me Peepers."  
  
"I look forward to it. Don't forget to sign out." they say, and that's the end of it. At least, for Calvin, who walks to his apartment complex with a mission.  


* * *

Wander opens up a Facebook page on their laptop. Pictures of Jeff in front of his students, at parties, smiling wide and almost always holding up a peace sign. Some things don't change. They take a deep breath and click on the message box.  
  
_**Howdy Jeff! It's me, Tumbleweed! Long time no see, huh?**_  
  
This message takes almost an hour to craft, and it says almost nothing about the last five years, but it's a start. A long awaited one. It's a good thing they could be patient.

* * *

Peepers figures the talk will be after work, since Hater's probably on his way right now, and they'll be much too busy playing catch-up for the last two weeks of inefficiency to say much.  
  
But when he gets back to the building, Hater's standing by the curb, smoking a Belgian cigarette.  
  
"What are you still doing here?! You're going to be late! We're on thin enough ice as it is, Hater!" he huffs, covering his mouth to keep the smoke out, so the words become muffled.  
  
"I called in sick. Just a one-day bug, I said. I suggest you call in too." he says, flicking the cigarette to the curb.  
  
"Why?" he asks, mind whirring. Surely Hater didn't think they should be together like that right after a first kiss. Sure, he wasn't the romantic that Peepers was, but he has some standards about dating. At least, he thinks so.  
  
"I figure we should figure out what we are to each other before we go back to work. Wouldn't want any misunderstandings like before."  
  
"Oh." he says, relived but maybe a bit disappointed too. After all, he was hot. "I guess so."  
  
"My apartment ok?"  
  
"I'd prefer it be in mine." he says, not because he doesn't trust Hater, but because his apartment is probably a mess after two weeks without his cleaning, and it would be awfully distracting if he couldn't stop picking things up while they talked.  
  
"Cool. Lead the way Peeps." he says, with a casual air that eases some of his worry.  
  
They settle on the couches, across instead of touching like usual, in such a way that it seems like a business merger. Well, it is a merger, of sorts.  
  
"So," Hater begins, smiling at him. "You like me. Uh...romantically?" Peepers nods, throat too tight to say anything yet. "Sexually too?" The question makes his face flush tomato red, but he nods again.  
  
"Awesome. I mean my bod is rocking as hell, but that's something I'd rather not get wrong." he says, and though he's trying to be the calm one here, there's a nervous tremor in his voice. It actually makes him feel a little better about it. That he's not sure of what to do either. They're in the same boat, looking at an uncertain ocean.  
  
"I sure hope it's mutual. I know I'm not much of a catch." he says lightly, trying to stave off some of the inherent awkwardness of what they're doing.  
  
"You're smart, hot, and know how to play Smash Bros. What's not to like?" he says, making him smile a little. Until he remembers how much there is that he doesn't like.  
  
"The post-traumatic stress, for one."  
  
"Well, if that's still too much of a problem for you, I can wait. Just be your friend, no pressure. I get it. I tried to date someone when I wasn't in a good place and it ended up being bad. Not abusive or anything. I just didn't have the energy to be there like I should."  
  
"How long would you wait?"  
  
"Until you were ready."  
  
"If I never am?"  
  
"Well, that would suck. I would need some time." he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I'd probably go back to being your best friend. If you wanted me."  
  
"I don't know if I'm ready." he says, and though he tries to hide it, he sees Hater crumple a little. "But I....I'd like to try."  
  
"Really?" he says, voice so full of hope and happiness that Peepers knows he did the right thing.  
  
"Yea." he says, with a smile that he hopes is reassuring.  
  
"Ok!" he says, practically grinning. "Anything you don't like that I should know right away?"  
  
"Surprises. Loud noises for no reason. Fireworks. Wong." he lists, and Hater snorts.  
  
"I meant in a relationship."  
  
"Oh. Um...not getting stabbed?" he says with a shrug.  
  
"We need to work on your standards."  
  
"Probably. Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Anything."  
  
"Can I kiss you?"  
  
"Honey, you don't even have to ask."  
  
"Good." he says, and pulls him down to the proper level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: hey guys! thanks so much for the kudos and nice comments, they really keep me going! just wanted to let you all know there's probably going to be another little hiatus because this Saturday's my bd!!! wooo!! as always, if you wanna chat or cry about bismuth, my tumblr is also oboeist3! have a nice day!


	18. The Date:Part 1

Over the next couple of days, two men with little experience but a whole lot of persistence try and settle on a balance. Relationships, any kind, but particularly romantic ones, are rivers. There's no real telling where they'll go, and time etches away the sediment underneath their currents. They started this new bend already pretty far downstream, so some things were easy. They knew about work schedules and how they set up time. They knew their hobbies and interests, and some of the more obvious displeasures.  
  
But some things are harder. Some things aren't known, so they have to be figured out. What do I call you now? Where's the line on public affection? How fast or slow do we go? These questions stretch on and on like buildings into the horizon. Too many to ever just be asked.  
  
Peepers finds his answers for the first few are partner, limited, and by-the-book, just in case of factors beyond his control. He'd always been cautious, and his love life bore no exception. Hater's answers are more at ease, Peepers is his **boyfriend** , who he's happy to drop kisses on frequently, and who he would without hesitation pull into his bedroom whenever he wanted.  
  
Through some more awkward conversations and a fair amount of sneaking around, they reach an agreement. Peepers would accrue affection at work only if it wasn't during their actual work, since it was beyond distracting. Hater wouldn't go announcing their relationship to the whole office, even though they all already knew, but he was free to boast as much about Peepers as anything else he did if asked.  
  
Finally, the most exciting and nerve wracking point on the fulcrum was a date Friday night, at that Italian place Wander had spoken of. It was nice, but not nice nice, which was good since Hater didn't actually own a suit.  
  
"I just rent for funerals and award ceremonies." he had said, much to Peepers gaping shock. He might just have to drag him down to the mall and get him something proper when Hater did need one.  
  
Peepers marks the date on his phone calendar with three alarms throughout the day, as if he'd forget, and three red heart emojis. Because he's gay, ok? And that's...ok.  
  
This is ok.  
  


* * *

Friday, it seems, is a mathematical anomaly of a day. Everyone is a bit worn down from the last four, and so the proportion of hours to lifespan seems far greater than the reality of it. Even more so when you've got something to look forward to, as Peepers does.  
  
Every moment is just a little slower than it should be, as if time itself was dipped in liquid nitrogen. It doesn't help any that Hater seems unaffected by the treacherous change in velocity. He acts as if it's just a normal day at work. Which it is! Except not at fucking all.  
  
He waits by the door as the last few minutes tick by like a boy in the last period of school, begging the bell to ring as quickly as possible. The third alarm beeps from his phone, and he bolts. Nevermind the hour of regular traffic keeping him from his apartment, those few seconds from door to car are far more important. They're in his hands, and he does not waste them on pride.  
  
Still, the start and stop of it makes his fingers shake on the wheel. They tap-tap-tap rhythms to avert yelling every curse word he's ever learned at the white Toyota in front of him. Luckily for them, he's able to find some space in the far left lane, and the rest of the drive is bearable.  
  
But then, of course, comes the hard part.  
  
Peepers looks into his closet with despair. His work outfits are presentable, unremarkable, and a little on the formal side. His black and grey suits are dry-cleaned and perfectly pressed. There's a few t-shirts for the weekends, and three pairs of jeans. One light denim, one medium, one dark. In short, his wardrobe was boring. He couldn't wear something **boring** on his first date!  
  
But that was the problem. The reason he didn't have anything interesting to wear was because he found fashion uninteresting. He got what he needed to be acceptable, not much else, and it had come back to bite him. Now there wasn't enough time to develop a 'style.' He needed an outfit in an hour, so he had enough time to get everything else ready.  
  
With growing dismay he takes out his phone. There's six names in his contact list. In alphabetical order they were as follows. Bean, Dad, Hater, Mama, Wander, and...oh no.  
  
He stares, sighs, and clicks the call button. It rings and rings and rings, and just on the edge of voicemail is answered.  
  
"I need a favor."  
  


* * *

Mano Wong wasn't expecting a phone call that Friday evening as he's chilling in his private hot tub. (Friday's his me day.) All his friends text or use social media to communicate, and he could count the people who would be willing to bother him on one hand.  
  
Peepers doesn't make the list, partially because he's never called before. Ever. He uses email for all his work communication. This must be something big. He almost missed the call in his shock, but barely managed to catch it.  
  
"Yo, Wong speaking."  
  
"I need a favor."  
  
"What, an extension? I mean you and Harry did make history so I guess I can cut y'all some sl-"  
  
"No." he says sharply, then sighs, and Wong can practically see his teeth grinding together as he forces the next few words out. "I need a personal favor."  
  
"Seriously?!" he says, not quite able to believe it. He must be dreaming. Though in the dreams he's usually nicer and more sexy.  
  
"Can you come over or not?" he snaps.  
  
Wong should say no. He should keep himself out of Peepers' personal life, he isn't wanted there. Not like he wishes he was wanted, in any case.  
  
"Text me the address. I'll be there in a sec."  
  
He's never been great at doing what he's supposed to.  
  


* * *

Fifteen minutes later and Wong is staring into the same closet Peepers' had, the man himself leaning on the bedframe, watching his every move. He inhales sharply, the whole thing is as sepia as an old movie.  
  
"It's hopeless, isn't it?" Peepers says, flopping back into the bed. "My first date and I've already blown it."  
  
"No, no! I can work with this." he says, because if there's one thing Mano Wong can do, it's make a good-looking outfit. He bypasses the work stuff and suits, evaluating the tiny selection of casual clothing. Nothing revealing or tight, but he isn't going to a club. Sadly. There's the cheerleader outfit he remembers from the Halloween party. A decidedly non-awesome night. He shakes his head. Focus.  
  
A minute later he comes out with a t-shirt, a flannel overshirt, the darkest pair of jeans and some forgotten Converse, maroon with white laces.  
  
"Here. It's not very sexy but you won't look like you jumped out of 1984." he says, handing the clothes to him. "Nice The Martian shirt, by the way." he says, indicating the t-shirt. It has a picture of the cracked face plate with a piece of duct tape over it and the quote 'duct tape is magic and should be worshipped' below it.  Never mind that he uses a patch kit in that particular scene and the duct tape in the dislodged airlock, it still gets the point across. "My favorite line is 'Hey look! Boobies!'"  
  
"Of course it is." he says, and laughs. Wong's never heard Peepers laugh before. It's...perfect. A little raspy at the beginning, but it melts into giggles like bubbles in the summer sun, floating a second of infinity. "Thank you."  
  
"Oh! Um, sure. No problem." he stammers, face red. "Anything for a bro in need!" he says, with his usual swagger. Peepers rolls his eyes.  
  
"I'll make you some tea for the road." he says, placing the outfit down carefully on the bed and walking towards the kitchen.  
  
"Tea?" he asks as he follows, sitting in a stool on the bar jutting into the living room, his head resting on one hand.  
  
"I have black, chai, Earl Gray." he lists, looking through the cabinet. "No Sencha Green, though. That's your favorite, isn't it?"  
  
"Yea. How did you know?"  
  
"You drink it every morning. Get it from that café on the way. Local, not chain. Black ok instead?"  
  
"Sure, but dude. That's a little creepy."  
  
"You hired me to notice things. Small things very far away. I'm good at my job. Not great at turning off."  
  
"Obviously." he says, and earns a glare for it. "But hey! This is a good first step. First date. Not ever, right?"  
  
"Not even I'm **that** much of a nerd, Wong." he says, putting on the kettle. A real one, not just a water heater. A bit old fashioned, but nice. "She was pretty, I guess. On the team. Hell of a set of lungs. But mostly she was an excuse. An example. Don't even know what happened to her. Probably married some college sweetheart. Big romantic type. Guess it rubbed off a little." he says with a sigh.  
  
"You're a romantic?" he says, not finding much signs of it in his austere apartment, all clean and modern. Not much sign of sentiment.  
  
"I'm practical, most of the time. But I do allow myself to daydream on occasion." he says, grabbing a cup from the cabinet, as the kettle was edging towards a whistle. "I keep trying to remind myself that this is normal." he says, so quietly that Wong can barely hear him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That this date, this whole... **thing** is ok. Things are different now. People are getting better. Hell, I could marry him someday! Somewhere, if not here. I don't think I ever imagined I'd make it to that day." he confesses, his body hunched over, fingers gripping the counter like a lifeline.  
  
"Peepers..." he says, moving to stand, but the kettle whistles and the vulnerable side of this man retreats. He stands up straight, takes a deep breath, and pours him a cup of black tea.  
  
"Here. You can keep the cup, it's just a plastic one. Have a safe drive. I'll see you on Monday." he says, and walks back to his room, the door closing behind him.  
  
Wong stares at the door for a long time, so long that the tea isn't hot when he picks it up. A better man would have gone after him.  
  
But he has never been a good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im v tired


	19. The Date: Part 2

Peepers soon finds, as many neurodivergent people do, that showers make everything feel better. Something about the stream of warm water cascading  down his shoulders takes away the worry knotted there. It doesn't fix the problem, and of course he's still nervous, but it makes him feel better about it. A little more optimistic.  
  
As for Wong, well, he's actually pretty sure he's ok there. For all his faults: his lack of tact, his laziness, his tendency to bend the rules; he was never unfair. Wong isn't a bad person, he just isn't the kind of person Peepers likes personally. He respects him, hell, even admires him. He's going places. Hopefully places very far away from him.  
  
He does owe him for the outfit help though. Maybe some sushi from that hole in the wall place he always gets on his observatory nights. Though he might think that even creepier than noticing the tea. Hm. This might take some thinking.  
  
But those thoughts can wait until after his date.  
  
His date with Hater, he thinks, and for the first time since its shaky conception, there's more excitement at the thought than anxiety. Sure, logically it's not all that different from the times in the past they'd gotten food. But it is. Because it's a **date** , inherently and indismissively romantic. No amount of logic can make that feeling lessen.  
  
It buzzes under his skin as he gets dressed and done up, or down, really. His hair is stylishly disheveled, as much as could be managed, and yea maybe it's a bit silly to be wearing Converse at his age, but it's a good kind of silly. The kind that reminds him of the Before.  
  
Peepers was great in the Marines, fell into place like he was made for it. The structure and order of it was a reprieve from the ever chaotic world outside. But he won't pretend not to have wondered what he had missed, choosing that path. He wasn't much of a party person, even then, but he had forfeited the fun of being young, the eve of responsibility.  
  
Tonight was his long-awaited at ease. No more zippered lips, avoided hookups. No more smiling tight when told he was married to his job more than any **gal** could take. Tonight he is, if not proud, then bold.  
  
Assuming Hater actually arrives anytime soon.  
  
Peepers knows, of course, his partner's tendency to tardiness. Had adjusted a margin of error just for the purpose. He's surpassed it. Ten minutes ago. He's just about to text him about it when the doorbell rings.  
  
When he opens the door, he finds his date leaning against the frame, his breath short, his hair a windblown mess.  
  
"L-lo siento...I...corrí a...here." he pants, handing Peepers a crumpled bouquet of roses. He doesn't technically understand half of the words just said to him, but the sentiment is clear.  
  
"Thanks. Come in, I'll um...get you some water." he says, grabbing his hand to guide him to the couch. In the kitchen he fills a glass of ice water, puts away the kettle, and places the flowers in a vase on the island. Peepers smiles, gently touching a drooping petal. It was nice of Hater, even if he had thought of it last minute.  
  
Hater's looking much better once he returns, though he eagerly gulps the water with a familiar exercise-worn sigh.  
  
"Ugh, I really need to start running again. I'm way out of shape." he says, stretching his arms over his head.  
  
"Where were you running to anyway?" he asks, and just now notices his outfit: one of those t-shirts made to look like a dress shirt, complete with fake bow tie, and black jeans. It's cute.  
  
"The flower shop by the graveyard. Barely made it before it closed too."  
  
"Hater, that's almost two miles from here!"  
  
"You're telling me!" he says with a huff of a laugh. "Was it worth it?" he asks, softer.  
  
"Absolutely." he says, placing a kiss on his temple. Peepers likes being able to tease that flustered expression out of him, that will-o-whisp smile. Because he knows that one is reserved for moments like this.  
  
"Come on. Let's get something to eat."  
  
"You don't have to convince me."  
  


* * *

The Italian place isn't nice enough to require reservation, though by now they'd have assuredly lost it, but it is popular enough to be crowded to capacity on a Friday night. Thus Peepers and his date are squished into a booth in the back corner, Hater literally. His knees knock against the bottom of the table as he tries to find room for them, causing him to grumble with annoyance.  
  
"We wouldn't be here if you were on time." Peepers points out. He himself is fine in the booth, the benefits of being short, with the added bonus that he can see all the exits. Old habits are hard to kill.  
  
"Can't change that now, can I?" he mumbles, and since an (extra) grumpy Hater is no fun to deal with, he links their hands under the table. Certainly not because he likes the way his fingers stay together across his palm. Don't be ridiculous.  
  
It works, anyhow. By the time a waiter manages to find them in the chaos, Hater's back to his baseline of 'easily irritable.'  
  
They order and fill the space with conversation naturally, everything from work to the best superhero. Which is Hawkeye, obviously, in Peepers' book. Especially the two of them in comic verse. Hater's is, predictably, Batman. Because Batman.  
  
The food arrives before the debate can get ugly, though Peepers had every intention of letting Hater win, despite his lack of support. It's worth losing the battle to win the war. The captain digs in, it's been near an hour of waiting, but Hater doesn't. He pokes at his pasta with an uncharacteristic slowness.  
  
"You're not eating." he says, tilting his head to the side. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing!" he says, much too quickly to be true.  
  
"Is there something wrong with it?"  
  
"No, it's just..."  
  
"Just?"  
  
"It's just part of the whole 'tragic backstory.' The way I usually eat. Not knowing if it'll still be there tomorrow, binging, blah blah blah. I never bothered fixing it because I usually eat alone anyway. But I really want this date to go well." he admits, blushing and biting his lip.  
  
"Hater," he says, reaching for his hand over the table, the opinion of others completely beyond his care right now. "I don't mind how you eat. I don't need flowers or anything special. I just need you. Exactly as you are. No fixing required."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"On Kepler."  
  
"His laws of planetary motion or belief in perfect solids? Because those are two very different answers."  
  
"Smart ass."  
  
"The smart ass you **like**?" he asks in a singsong voice.  
  
"Far too much." he says, smiling. It's mirrored in Hater's face before he eviscerates his poor pasta.  
  


* * *

Dinner is over too soon, and Peepers doesn't know what to do about it. The bill is paid, split down the middle, and they weave their way from booth to door. It doesn't seem fair, that it's already done. So he stalls.  
  
"Want to see a movie?" he asks, trying not to sound too desperate.  
  
"Something good out?"  
  
"I don't know. I think Tom Hanks is in something new."  
  
"Alright. We're not getting concessions at the theatre though. Those mark-ups are insane." Hater says, reaching for his hand easily, like it's supposed to be there. Peepers is inclined to agree.  
  
So they go to a nearby convenience store and Hater picks some Red Tamales, complete with flame iconography. Peepers, not hungry after dinner, gets a little bag of Jolly Ranchers for his desk.  
  
Sure enough, Tom Hanks does have a movie out: a true story of some incident with Somali pirates. They get their tickets and shuffle to the back of the theatre, Peepers can see more of the screen that way. They actually missed most of the commercials, so it's not long before they're told to silence their phones and enjoy the film.  
  
The first twenty minutes, they watch. Hater munches on his candy, and Peepers wishes the story would play along a little faster. Cinematically beautiful as it all was, nothing much has happened. So it's very obvious when Hater yawns loudly and stretches an arm over his shoulders.  
  
It's that good kind of silly again. Here they were, grown men in their thirties, still acting like teenagers. Nervous and jittery, testing the line. As if Peepers didn't trust Hater with **everything** , if not all at once. But he plays his part. He scootches closer and places a secret kiss on his cheek, feels smug when he blushes.  
  
He doesn't pay attention to the movie again all evening, but if anyone asked, he'd say it was very very good, and tug up the edge of his collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[whacks depression with stick]] go away i need to write


	20. Opal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: alluded to drug use/addiction, minor ableism

"My parents are crazy!" Peepers announces as he barges into the apartment. Hater, used to him and his occasion bursts of irrational anger, doesn't even move from his slumped position on the couch.  
  
"Uh-huh. How so?"  
  
"They invite me home for Christmas, as always right, no big deal, but then they drop the fact that they're **also** inviting this girl from high school, in...you know!" he says, pacing the floor and waving his hands to indicate the severity of the last two words.  
  
"The set up kind of way." he says, paying more attention now. Jealously does that to a guy.  
  
"So I say that I'd love to see her, she was really nice and all, but I didn't want to **see** her. So they ask why. And I'm not saying at first, but they keep going on and on about how she turned out until I admit that I'm already seeing someone."  
  
"Really?" he says, surprised.  
  
"Well, yea. You, skull-head."  
  
"That is a completely redundant insult." he says, but inside he's so happy he could cry. Peepers told his parents about him! That had to mean something!  
  
"I didn't really think it through." he confesses. "But here's the bad part. They sent me another plane ticket. They want to **meet** you!"  
  
"Ok. Why not?"  
  
"Why **not**?! Because it's completely out of order!"  
  
"I didn't know love confessions in seventies records and admitting to childhood trauma were steps in this." he says sarcastically, bringing up the fact that they hadn't done any of this in the proper order.  
  
"Hater. We've been dating for a week."  
  
"And a half! Don't forget it." he says, and Peepers' head ticks ever so slightly, just about to really go off, but just ends up sighing and pulling out his phone. Huh, that therapist really was doing wonders.  
  
"You're not going. I'll find a way to get at least a partial refund on this ticket. Pay back the rest."  
  
"You...really don't want me to meet them." he realizes, his smile dropping, throat getting tight. "Is it because of.." he looks down at his skin, dark brown, the kind not even lightening cream could fix.  
  
"What? No, no! They're not intentionally...that...they are in their sixties, it's just...just that..." he stammers, but Hater can see the answer in his eye.  
  
"You didn't tell them. Oh my God, you didn't tell them?! After all these years?! That's why they're trying to set you up with this girl. They don't know you're gay."  
  
"Shut up!" he snaps, the leaking fuel having caught on a spark. He's truly mad now. "Do **your** parents know?"  
  
"My parents are dead!" he yells, and then sighs, a long-drawn breath of despair. "She is at least. Overdose. I don't know about him."  
  
"Hater," he says, the anger disappearing from his voice like blood in water. "I'm...sorry. I shouldn't have. I didn't know but I shouldn't have."  
  
"It's ok. Well not. But it's pointless. They didn't care about me, why should I give them a thought?" he asks, digging his curled fists into his eyes to hold the tears back.  
  
"They were your parents. Of course you cared about them. Even if they didn't deserve it." he says, sitting next to him, gently moving his hands to lace with Hater's, a thinned-out tether against the windstorm.  
  
"Why haven't you told them? Are they bad?" he asks, but it's as if he's not sure he wants to hear the answer.  
  
"No. They're not. They just don't understand a lot of things. After how torn up Mama was when I joined the military, I didn't want to be one of them, not again."  
  
"So you lied to them."  
  
"No. I just didn't correct them. It never really mattered. Plenty of veterans never meet anyone, and no one thinks anything of it. But then I met you." he says, voice soft and caring, one hand freeing from the grasp to brush away a wayward tear from Hater's cheek.  
  
"I'm not one for fairy tales or love at first sight. But you were the first person to not care about all the things I was dragging along. That I was a mess without a direction. You were just there, and you never stopped." he says, with a shaky laugh just out of retirement, walking shakily.  
  
"I know it's too early to tell if this works out. But you said that wouldn't mean you would leave. And no one's ever promised to haunt me if they die before!" he says, more laughter filling the spaces.  
  
"So I'm very proud to have you as my friend, my partner. So proud I don't want them to hurt you. Even if they did understand, they would. Even good parents do, and you deserve better."  
  
"What have I said about that, Peeps. I like you, flaws and all. If that means I have to survive through some in-laws, I'll do it."  
  
"We're not married, Hater."  
  
"Yet. Also, the hospital might think we are. I had to see you right away."  
  
"Alright then, Dr. Johnson."  
  
"Oh no. You would be Mr. Martinez."  
  
"Looks like we've got some things to discuss on the plane."  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"Yea. I'll help you pack."  
  
"Is this just so you can micromanage my clothing choices?"  
  
"Maybe a little."  
  


* * *

Five hours later they stand triumphantly at their terminal, having survived the drive, the rush, and security in one piece. They were exhausted, and they still had a three hour flight to go. Hater groans and flops unceremoniously to the floor.  
  
"I'm going to die." he declares, face-down on rough carpet. It tickles his nose.  
  
"You are not." Peepers says, unamused, poking at his side with his foot. "I'll go get us some food. Double cheeseburger, no onions?"  
  
Hater gives him a thumbs up, and when he pries himself free of the floor, he's disappeared. Seeing as he can see the line from here, it's going to be a long wait. All for some crummy hamburger.  
  
Not wanting to waste his phone battery, he'd need that audiobook for the flight, he instead thinks of the conversation he and Peepers had as they packed.  
  


* * *

_"Hater, you know I love you, right? Annoying traits and all. And I don't think you should have to change to please anyone."_  
  
_"I'm sensing a but here."_  
  
_"But my parents are...well they're...they're my parents. They don't have a lot of experience with...people like you. So I'm asking, as a favor, if you could just be...just tone it down a little? Just for four days, only two complete ones! Nothing major! Maybe let them call you Harry?" he says, awkwardly forcing out the words, and looking like he'd just asked the world of him._  
  
_"Dude, relax. I deal with old white people all the time. I can be charming." he assures him._  
  
_"You don't owe them anything." he says, with a bit of an edge. It was obvious from square one that there's a history with Peep's family. Nothing as horrific as his, empirically, but maybe worse. To know you had never been loved was one thing. Having thorns and ice push up into something green and good, that was another._  
  
_"I just think it will be easier for you. Especially if this becomes serious."_  
  
_"I think it's already pretty serious, I'm meeting your parents." he jokes, trying to relieve some of the tension. This one doesn't land._  
  
_"I don't want you to be the reason she starts hating me. Over something dumb like the way you talk or look or act sometimes. I know there's so much to you. But she only sees things **her** way." he says, snapping the bag closed. "Mother knows best."_  
  


* * *

What in the world do you say to something like that? Hater hadn't known then, and time doesn't give him an answer. He doesn't really have a clue what he should be doing at all. Meeting the parents is never easy, no matter who you are. Meeting the parents of your closeted boyfriend who already has issues with them? There's no guide for that.  
  
He'll just have to wing it.  
  
"One burger for a walking skeleton, any takers? Going once, twice -"  
  
"Give me that." he says, snatching the bag from his boyfriend's hand. "I don't know how you have energy left for jokes. I'm beat."  
  
"Endurance, Hater. You should build some." he says, sitting down next to him and opening up his own chicken sandwich.  
  
"Priority seating, numbers one through twenty, please line up. Numbers one through twenty, please line up." A tinny female voice rings over the loudspeaker.  
  
"Fuck." Peepers swears, earning his attention.  
  
"Wha'?"  
  
" **We're** priority seating, since last time I was in a wheelchair. I guess it didn't get fixed. Can you - you already finished." he says, voice deadpan. Hater shrugs. He was hungry.  
  
"Give me a second." he says, inhaling the rest of his sandwich and standing up. "Ugh. This is not going to be good for my heartburn. Come on."  
  
Hater grabs his hand and they walk over to the line, between a man with a cane and a little girl with an oxygen tank. He can practically see the guilt coming off of Peepers, so he squeezes his hand.  
  
"Hey, you're allowed to be here. You're disabled, remember?"  
  
"Technically. I'm used to guessing depth by now. My accuracy is within an acceptable range."  
  
"And the other thing?"  
  
"I have no intention of having a panic attack on the plane."  
  
"Then you'll be fine, won't you?"  
  
"I suppose so." he says, but relaxes a little, which is Hater's real goal.  
  


* * *

The flight is long and boring, like all other flights of Hater's life. He grips the armrests as they take off, winces through the pop pop pop of his eardrums, and tries to remind himself that math is on their side here. He is not afraid of flying, but like most people, part of him is terrified of falling. The audiobook, he has found, helps. He's too busy following the narrator's voice to remember the possibility of their untimely demise.  
  
Peepers notices, but he didn't have to. Hater had told him this happened, insisted he didn't need any comfort. It was something he didn't really like about himself, but he knew it, and dealt with it. He solves the problem but doesn't answer the question. But the quick kiss Peepers gives him when they're cruising the stratosphere, like he's proud of him, isn't unwelcome.  
  
Nor is it when he harrumphs about the pillow being lumpy and curls up into Hater's side instead, looking like a cocoon with the blanket wrapped around him. He hums when Hater absentmindedly twirls his hair around a finger, following the path of early strands of silver-gray in black. Hater's always liked that, thinks it makes him look distinguished and proper.  
  
But of course, he likes most things about Peepers.  
  
Even though he's resting, Peepers doesn't sleep during the flight. He plays some puzzle game on his phone, and when he grows bored of it, pulls a book from his backpack. It's one of the trashy ones from his bookcase, with some ridiculous title and garbage plot. He face flushes beet red when things get risqué, even though he's surely already read this before. It's adorable.  
  
He's so lost in his lovelorn observations that he barely listens to his audiobook at all. At least he'll have it for the way back, a late night flight, when Peepers will most certainly be sleeping.  
  
_Speaking of sleep, I sure as hell could use some._ he thinks as they get off the plane. But alas, there's baggage to be retrieved, a rental car to pick up, and a hotel to drive to. They do so, Hater becoming progressively less coherent with each step.  
  
By the time they get to the room, he's all but dead on his feet. He doesn't bother with pajamas or brushing his teeth, just leaps into the queen bed with a sigh of relief. _Just one bed?_   he thinks groggily, but not much further. Instead he burrows under the covers and starts to nod off. Sounds of running water, the buzzing of an electric toothbrush, are far away and murky.  
  
When someone warm slides next to him, he isn't really thinking about well...anything. But the feelings bubble up unconsciously at the sight of him, so he wraps his arms around him and holds him tight.  
  
"I'm not a teddy bear, you know."  
  
"Mhmm. Seguro, mi amor."  
  
"That better mean something nice."  
  
"Shhh. Vete a dormir."  
  
"This is going nowhere. Go to sleep, you Mexican lug." he says, and though he acts annoyed, there's too much care in his voice to fool Hater.  
  
"Yo también te amo." he whispers, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been three years since i took spanish so pls tell me if i messed anything up


	21. Meet the Johnsons

The sight of Hater in the morning is one Peepers could definitely get used to. Not for any sort of charm on his partner's part, he snores loudly, drools on the pillow, and can't keep his legs still. But despite the lack of objective appeal, there's something nice in waking up next to someone. Especially someone you really care about.  
  
He spends far too much time just staring at him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Eventually though, he places a kiss to his forehead and wiggles out of his arms. After all, today was going to be a long and potentially disastrous day. He might as well start it off right.  
  
To him, getting showered, dressed, and ready for the day is simple. There are steps to be taken in a proper order, and he does them. Rousing Hater isn't so easy. Even started off with a cup of coffee, he groans and trudges with the aching slowness of a lumbering land mammal. He is, to put it mildly, not a morning person.  
  
By breakfast he is, at least, able to string sentences together and complain about the chill from hotel to car. To Peepers, who grew up on snow filled winters, it's perfectly pleasant. But to Hater, who has never traveled above the Mason-Dixon Line, they might as well be in Norway.   
  
Peepers finds it terribly amusing.  
  
"It's freezing out there!" he says, pressing his fingers against the driver's side vents, trying to coax feeling back into the digits.  
  
"It's actually almost fifty degrees. Your sweater should be plenty."  
  
"What, do you have some extra layer of blubber I don't know about?"  
  
"Endurance, Hater."  
  
"Fuck your endurance!" he declares, with such fury that Peepers bursts into laughter. It takes him almost five minutes to stop, for whenever he does, he sees Hater's aghast expression and falls into another round of giggles.  
  
"Sorry." he says, wiping a laughter-born tear from his eye. "It was just something about - mmph!" His apology is cut off by a kiss so fierce that he feels dizzy coming out of it.  
  
"W-what was that for?" he asks, still dazed.  
  
"Being too cute." he says, as if that's a valid reason at all, and shifts the car into reverse. "Ready to navigate, Kirk?"  
  
"Chekov's the navigator." he mumbles, and plugs the address into Google Maps.  
  


* * *

Thirty minutes later Hater find himself at a house almost painfully suburban. A white and gray Tudor with three bedrooms, three point five bathrooms, and an immaculately tended lawn of yellow-green grass. Fairy lights are strung above the gorgeous shuttered windows, and the two other cars in the driveway are carbon copies of Peepers', small and energy efficient.  
  
"Didn't know your parents lived in the house from Home Alone." he comments as he steps out of the car.  
  
"Don't be silly." Peepers says stiffly. "That's in Illinois, and we're not nearly so rich." He's standing ramrod straight, staring at the house as though it might eat him alive. Hater reaches for his hand, links them together tight.  
  
"It's going to be ok."  
  
"You don't know that." he says, sharp and scared. Hater can feel the tremors through his fingers.  
  
"Yes, I do. Because no matter what happens, I'll be here for you." he says, smiling at him, and the tension eases slightly from his shoulders.  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Promise."  
  
Peepers nods once, and they walk towards the door. Hater presses the bell, producing a loud ding-dong and a yell of 'coming!'  
  
The man who opens the door looks like his boyfriend from the future. He's short and thin, with silver-gray hair that sits on his head like a mop. His eyes, however, are the color of a calm sea, and his gait is easy, relaxed. He stares up at Hater with surprise, but no worry or fear.  
  
"Dad, this is Harold Martinez. He's my partner. Harry, Dad." Peepers says, gesturing between the two.  
  
"Pleasure to meet you." Hater, Harry for today apparently, says, holding out his free hand.  Peepers' father shakes loosely, his fingers unusually long and thin, like a pianist.  
  
"Hm." he says, looking at Hater appraisingly. Not with any judgement, not yet. He's giving him the opportunity to prove himself. Hater doesn't intend to waste it. He looks back and tries to make it clear in his eyes that he cares about his son more than he's cared about anyone else in his entire life. Peepers' dad nods once.  
  
"You'd better come in then." he says, and Peepers looks about ready to sob with relief. He catches himself though, instead smiles and squeezes Hater's hand.  
  
They go inside, and it looks exactly as you would expect. Nice, but not in an obnoxious way, garland wrapped around the stair's banister. The foyer leads straight into the living room, a big plastic tree taking up most the space, with a small pile of presents underneath. And though it's like a million other houses across the country, Hater finds it magical.  
  
"Your house looks lovely." he says, though of course, the word lovely sounds weird coming from him. It's not something he usually equips in his vocabulary.  
  
"Ah thank you. But this is all Mary. I couldn't keep anything in order without her. Fantastic, she is." he says, with a long-born affection that makes Hater's chest tight.  
  
"So, you play basketball?" he asks, and Peepers gasps.  
  
" **Dad!** "  
  
"What? He's very tall. Lots of tattoos too." he says, oblivious to his implications.  
  
"No, nothing as interesting as that. I work with...Calvin. I'm an astrophysicist." he says, and though usually he finds the assumption tiresome, it's kind of funny how much it makes Peeps puff up.  
  
"Ah, another stargazer. Cal was always a sucker for space. I remember how much you begged for a telescope when you were little, all those charts and presentations! Most kids only went that far for a dog!"  
  
"Daaad!" he exclaims, mortified for completely different reasons. Hater grins. This was going to be a fun few days.  
  
"You have any other stories about Calvin?"  
  
"Oh, loads! He went through all sorts of phases! Why back in the third grade, he wanted to be a-"  
  
Thankfully for Peepers, he was saved from the delightful telling of all his childhood embarrassments by the front door banging open.  
  
"David, I'm back! You'll never believe what they're asking for ham at the butcher! Assurdo! Practically highway robbery!" A voice rants, a voice who's owner soon appears.  
  
Maria "Mary" Johnson is short too, but bulky, like a square with legs. She has sun-touched skin and the same brown eyes and black hair as her son. The other thing she clearly passed on to him was her anger. It bubbles out of her like water from a spring, popping in broad motions with her hands, telling the story as much as her words, an Iliad.  
  
Her in depth recounting of her argument with the butcher stops when she sees Hater. She stands as tall as Mount Everest, staring him down, her eyes narrowed and ready to attack.  
  
"And **who** are you?" she demands, crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
"I'm Harry. Calvin's partner."  
  
"His what?"  
  
"Partner. Um...boyfriend?" he says, looking at Peepers for help, but he isn't any. He's petrified, scared stiff as a board.  
  
"Humph. Took him long enough to find someone. You look strong, come help with the groceries. Dai, dai!" she orders, and he dutifully follows. As soon as the door closes behind them, her scowl turns positively menacing.  
  
"Listen, Harold. I don't agree with my son's decisions on many things. Joining the military, for one, and refusing to let us help him when things went bad. He's too much like me for his own good. Stubborn, independent, and lonely. I want him to have someone, the way I have David, or he's going to get himself killed. I thought a girl would be good, but fine, if this is who he loves I don't care. But if you don't love him, I want you to leave right now and never come back. He's not built for heartbreak, so better now than later, you understand?" she says, angry and yet so loving it hurt to hear. Her eyes are filled to the brim with tears, and they roll down her face defiantly.  
  
"Mrs. Johnson. I would do **anything** for your son if it made him happy. It's early days, maybe too early to tell if it's going to work out. But I love him, and he loves me too, and God damn I'm going to try!" he says, wincing when he sees the cross on her neck. "Er sorry."  
  
"I'm sure the Lord will forgive you." she says, and smiles. It's crystal she passed that on to him too.  
  


* * *

Peepers stares, his jaw slack, as his mother bosses Hater around the kitchen like she did for anyone within her radius of control. She is brusque but not unkind, indeed, she is far gentler with Hater than she had ever been with him. Hater, for his part, seems to be enjoying himself, though his lack of cooking knowledge makes some of the instructions difficult.  
  
"Glad your mother found a new assistant?" His father asks, teasing and light.  
  
"I don't know." he says, looking back at the man who raised him. "I never thought I'd make it this far."  
  
"Oh Cal," he says, shaking his head sadly. "We love you. I guess we didn't say it much but...well you were always so smart. I guess we thought you'd know. I couldn't be prouder of you."  
  
"Even now?" he asks, pushing his luck, because he never knew when to quit.  
  
"Especially now. You knew how we could have reacted, but you brought him here anyway. I was never so brave, why your mother and I eloped because I couldn't tell your grandparents what you told me."  
  
"What I told you?"  
  
"Oh, I suppose you didn't say it in words. The way you look at him though...it reminds me of when I first took you out to the field and you looked at the night sky, free of all obstructions, and said you could see **everything**."  
  
"I...I looked like that?" he says, looking over at Hater, imagining him as the first real look at the stars, and it comes easily. It shines in his scowl as much as his smile, in his clumsy, earnest movements, in the way his whole face lights up when he sees him looking, waves until Mama chides him.  
  
"I really like him." he breathes, sure for the first time that he could spend forever with this man. "He's not just some boy."  
  
"Well then. Better start looking for a ring. Or a good hotel."  
  
"Dad!"  
  


* * *

Dinner is a humble affair, compared to the big meal tomorrow, one with all the uncles, aunts, and cousins, first and on. It consists of meatloaf and bread that cracks eager as a faultline.  
  
Hater tries to eat reasonably, but Mary sees his hesitation and calls him on it.  
  
"Something wrong with it? Come on, don't spare my feelings."  
  
"Nothing ma'am. I'm just not a pretty eater." he says, feeling a sense of deja vu. It's a little eerie, how similar they are.  
  
"Well, dinner's not for being pretty. Keep your mouth shut while you chew, and no elbows on the table, but picking at your food like a hummingbird is no way for a man to eat."  
  
Hater looks over at his boyfriend, who shrugs helplessly. He's been no help all day, honestly. But he can't fault him.  
  
"Don't say I didn't warn you." he says, and two minutes later his whole plate is clean.  
  
"You could win money, eating like that." David notes, and passes him his dinner roll. "I'm full just watching you!"  
  
"Nothing to do with the cookies you snuck out of the pantry?" Peepers asks, faux innocent, but smirks at Hater when the two begin to squabble as only married couples could.  
  
After the dishes are rinsed and placed in the dishwasher by Mary, who glowered when her guests offered to help, David pulls out Pictionary. The couples are split, Hater paired with Mary, Peepers with David. Despite Hater's lack of artistic finesse, the duo manage to pull ahead to victory, and Mary pulls him into a dance with no rhythm or care.  
  
"Victory is ours!" she declares, grinning at her husband, who shrugs.  
  
"I never doubted you for a second, dear." he says, good humor unwavering. Peepers rolls his eye, used to his father's continued smittence despite the years. Hater thinks it's sweet.  
  
It's eleven by the time they're pushed out the door, told to drive safe and that they'll be seen tomorrow. Mary places a kiss on her son's cheek and, after a moment of contemplation, reaches on her tiptoes to put one on Hater's as well.  
  
"You look after my boy, Harold." she says, and he nods solemnly.  
  
"Always."  
  


* * *

Peepers drives the way back, since it was only fair, and he could use to focus it requires. He's just so **happy** , how everything went. Hater fit into his family like he was meant to be there. Despite how much they made him cringe, he loves his parents. He didn't want to lose them, not for anything. They weren't perfect, far from, but they were his.  
  
Hater is too. Maybe it was time to make it official.  
  
Not tonight though. They're tired and there's another long day tomorrow. But as he slides into his arms, he kisses him long and hard and with enough heat to make him gasp.  
  
"What was that for?" he asks, blinking at him.  
  
"Everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to phicat for fixing my spanish and to all of you lovely readers, kudoers, and commenters! i couldn't do it without you. <3


	22. Wherever You Are

It's four in the morning when Hater wakes up, not because he wants to, but because nature calls. He blearily waddles towards the bathroom, but when he pushes open the door, he finds it occupied. Peepers is sitting in the tub, still dressed, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. When he looks up, his eye is red and bloodshot.  
  
"Hater. Did I wake you? I'm sorry I - I'm sorry."  
  
"No, I just had to go to the bathroom. What's wrong?" he asks, kneeling next to him and placing a hand on his back.  
  
"It's nothing. I'm just overreacting." he says, wiping away the leftover tears.  
  
"Calvin." he says. "Please tell me."  
  
Peepers sighs, picks off a wrapper from the hotel soap and folds it as he talks.  
  
"I woke up because of a nightmare. I'm getting used to dealing with them, but it's hard to go back to sleep after. So I started thinking, about what's going to happen tomorrow - today. We were lucky with my parents. But luck only goes so far. Someone's going to say something horrible today. And I know you're tough, I know you can handle it, I know they don't even matter when push comes to shove. But I don't want them to hurt you."  
  
Hater is quiet for a moment, thinking. He's not usually one to do that for conversation, but he doesn't want to say something stupid or dismissive. He also doesn't want him to keep worrying about it. So it takes some thinking.  
  
"Hey. You know what helps me when I have a problem?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Making a plan. Take it step by step. Worst case scenario? It's an awkward dinner, and we leave early."  
  
"That....that could work." he says, looking at him like he just discovered the secret of the universe.  
  
"I am pretty dang brilliant. Now why don't you go work on that, um, outside. I still need to go to the bathroom." he says, biting his lip. One can only hold it so long.  
  
"Oh, right." he says, and steps out.  
  


* * *

When Hater comes out, Peepers has already scribbled on half a dozen napkins, spreading them out on the bedside table. Because it's Peepers, who doesn't do anything halfway.  
  
"Whatcha' got there?" he asks, sitting down behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and kissing the side of his neck. He likes how the flush spreads all the way down it.  
  
"A strategy. Know your enemy, Sun Tzu says, so we will." he says, determined.  
  
"This isn't exactly what I meant." he says, squinting down at the looping cursive, neat and tiny. "We're not going to **actually** fight your extended family are we?"  
  
"No. I just want you to know what you're in for." he says, handing him a napkin.  
  
"There's no way I can read these without my glasses."  
  
"I'll just tell you then. Mama's an orphan, and she lost touch with her family a long time ago, so it's all Dad. My grandfather died a few years ago, but Oma's still alive. She's not coming though. Thankfully. She would...not approve." he says, a gross understatement.  
  
"Dad has two brothers, the older one, Owen, and the younger one, Steven. Steven's married to Karen. They have two kids, twins, Amy and Amanda. Amy's married to James." he says, tracing the line of blood connection from the grandparents down on his makeshift family tree.  
  
"Got it." Hater says, yawning and resting his head on top of the other.  
  
"You sure?" he says, surprised. "I could go through it again."  
  
"Uncle Owen, Uncle Steven and Aunt Karen, cousins Amy and Amanda, and whatever you call your cousin's spouse. In-law? James." he recites. "Now can we please go back to sleep? You're killing me, Peeps!" he half-quotes, and snickers.  
  
"Ok." he says, letting out a deep breath. "Thank you." he adds, soft and fragile.  
  
"That's what I'm here for. Oh, and kisses. Which I am happy to accept." he says, and with a great sigh of (fake) exasperation, Peepers gives him one. Just a peck, but it's enough for the witching hours.  
  
The humans, mischief managed, return to slumber.  
  


* * *

As soon as they arrive at his parents' house the next day, Hater is whisked away by Mama for some sort of cooking emergency, and as Dad was out getting last-minute supplies, he's put on manning the door for guests.  
  
Peepers stares out the window and tries in vain to keep his pulse steady. This was out of his control, whatever happened would happen. There was no point in worrying about it. But worry he does, if for nothing than habit.  
  
Well, that isn't entirely true. He wasn't lying to Hater last night, about being worried that his family would hurt him. He just held a little fragment of the truth close to his chest.  
  
Peepers, however logical and above it he tries to be, doesn't want to be rejected by his family either. It's not the same level as hurt as Mama or Dad hating him for being gay, but it's still painful. He loves his family and always will, it's an obligation, a fact. But he **likes** them too, most of the time. Losing that support, however seldom used, was a blow he wasn't sure he was ready for.  
  
But ready or not, here they came.  
  
It's Aunt Karen and Uncle Steven who arrive first, in a shuddering gray van that saw them through two kids and three economic downturns. Steven, a dry insurance agent with the personality of a steel support beam, is reluctant to give up anything until the costs outweigh the benefits. Karen, who teaches kids piano from home, leaves the shame of it solely on her husband, and keeps the garage door firmly locked.  
  
She comes bearing dessert casserole, something made of whipped cream, pudding, and marshmallows. _Hater's going to love it._ he thinks with a wry smile, opening the door for them.  
  
"Oh thank you Calvin dear. I'd give you a hug but my hands are full." she says, entering the foyer and looking around. "So? Where's this girl of yours?" she asks, never one for dillydallying.  
  
"They're helping Mama with the meal." he says, barely managing to suppress a cringe. For better or worse, the assumptions would be over.  
  
Karen purses her lips, internally debating whether or not to bother Mary in the kitchen, which she ruled over with an iron fist. She decides against it.  
  
"I'll go put this in the dining room." she says, leaving the two men to forced conversation.  
  
"Uncle Steven."  
  
"Calvin."  
  
"Things good at work?" he asks, as in all his years of knowing his uncle, he knew next to nothing about his personal life. It seemed, at times, that he didn't even have one.  
  
"As well as can be expected. The snow is troublesome, so many claims." he says, but with so little emotion it was hard to tell if it was serious or some sort of absurdist humor.  
  
"I see." he says, having nothing better. Luckily, one of the few people who did understand Steven was bounding up the steps and pushing her way through the door.  
  
"Heya Dad! I'm surprised you beat us, traffic was a nightmare!" Amy says cheerfully, as she always did. The petroleum engineer exuded a personal halo of positivity that made even the serious bore of her father smile, even as Karen calls him to see the drapes in the dining room as reference for their own.  
  
"Cal-bear!" she exclaims as she sees him. "How's the South been treating you? Lost your winter edge?" she jabs, pulling him into a noogie. She was, and still remains, the family tomboy. From her short dirty blonde hair to a wardrobe of flannel shirts and jeans, to her bullying, but never mean, style of affection.  
  
"I'm fine." he says, escaping her grip with some difficulty. He looks behind her, puzzled. "Where's James?"  
  
"Oh, you didn't hear?" she says, smile wavering slightly. "He's officially left the family. Papers all signed, job on a site in North Dakota. G-o-n-e. Oh, but he did give me a parting gift!" she says, rebounding to cheer as she opens up her puffy winter coat, revealing a harness and a tiny scrap of skin and fat. A baby.  
  
"Well, I say gift but **I** had to carry the damn thing. Still, ain't he a cutie? Say hi to Uncle Cal, Danny!" she coos, lifting a tiny hand to wave. Two disproportionately large eyes blink at him, a seaside blue, and he gurgles.  
  
"Aw, that means he likes you! I better go check his diapy, it's been a long drive, hasn't it, darling?" she says to the baby, and though he'd never seen his cousin as maternal, the love in her eyes as she stares at him is unbounded, a little infinity.  
  
He's still processing the fact that he's got a nephew now when the evil twin approaches. Well, maybe that wasn't fair. Amanda looks, as always, beautiful and pristine, balancing on stilettos with a well-earned ease. Her clothes are fashionable and name brand, her purse held delicately between manicured nails. And sure, she might think a little highly of herself, but that was earned too. She built the Mystique label from scratch, and knew just how to snatch enough luck to make it a roaring success. But for all her good, Peepers had always found her haughtiness contemptible.  
  
The fact that by a genetic quirk she was already the tallest of them all, with the heels adding insult to injury, did not help one bit.  
  
She is accompanied by one in a string of model boyfriends, none of whom lasted more than six months. With the doting adoration on this one's face, he probably wouldn't even make three. Amanda didn't want forever. She wants the flashiest and newest of everything, and men were no exception.  
  
"Let's just get this over with." she declares, sidling past him like one more obstacle in her way. The model, at least, shakes his hand and gives him a business card. He's Adrian, apparently, with a last name of vowels and hyphens. His English has a slurrish quality, like muddy water. There is, however, genuine kindness in him. Odd, for one of Amanda's.  
  
Last but not least is Uncle Owen. He shows up in decrepit European car from the sixties, the kind yanked off the roads for emission levels comparable to a small factory. Maybe he fixed it to parameters, maybe they just hadn't caught him yet. Peepers is inclined to think it the latter. His clothes are loose and covered in paint splatters, naturally. Like the paintings he created, Uncle Owen is a walking blur.  
  
"Sorry for being late, my boy." he says, wringing his hands as he enters. "I just got hit with a genius idea and couldn't let it go to waste!" he says, tapping his temple.  
  
"You're not too late, Uncle Owen." he assures him. Owen was one of the kindest men Peepers had ever known, but he wasn't good with people, found them scary and often violent. Peepers wasn't very good with people either. To him, they were illogical and cruel. They didn't value what they ought to. Owen understood that, let him sit in his studio just reading for hours when he was young.  
  
Of all the people to lose today, he might hurt the most.  
  


* * *

The space between arrival and dinner is filled with small talk, the kind of lackluster conversation Peepers finds hard to contribute to, now more than ever. So he hovers, flittering from group to group, gathering information of neighborhood drama, the price and quality of baby formula, and the cutthroat fashion world. When the onus of conversation fell to him, he would talk about work, about analysis of patterns and star systems with just enough detail to render it boring. Many times they try to curb it to his personal life, to his **girl** , but he enacts a sort of professional obliviousness worthy of an Oscar.  
  
Finally though, Mary announces that dinner is ready, and they all pile into the dining room. Everyone, that is, except Peepers. He sneaks into the kitchen, finds Hater holding three dishes is massive hands, Mama's apron looking more a bib than anything.  
  
"Hey babe." he says, bending to kiss him. Peepers is beyond flushing at each now, kisses him back solidly. It reminds him of what he's fighting for, makes him feel stronger.  
  
"I think I should introduce you. Make it clear who you are." he says. It might avoid some of the more unintentional insults. Karen especially was liable to say something about 'the help' if he came out as is.  
  
"Fine by me." he says, placing the dishes back on the island and hanging the apron back on its hook. "I might still have some flour on me though." he says, twisting his head to search for white patches. Peepers smiles, stands on his tiptoes to kiss him again.  
  
"You look perfect." he says, grabbing his hand, weaving their fingers together. "Ready?"  
  
"As I'll ever be." he says, revealing a nervousness he'd been working hard to hide, to be the strong one. It's just one more reason that he knows he made the right choice, bringing him.  
  
They walk into the dining room, hands linked, but at first, no one is looking at them. They're much too focused on loading their plates up with food, for which Peepers can hardly blame them. Still, he doubts he can manage this announcement more than once. So he sticks two fingers into his mouth and whistles, high and sharp. All eyes turn to him, all nine pairs. Monstrous.  
  
"Everybody," he says, using the voice of a Captain to a new group of men, imposing, demanding. "This is Doctor Harold Martinez. He's my partner in cosmic exploration a-and in love."  
  
Blank stares.  
  
"I'm the girlfriend." Hater clarifies.  
  
Gasps crack the room like a piece of glass, and whatever they think of him truly, all they have for now is shock. Even Danny, too young to understand anything much at all, looks puzzled.  
  
"Nice to meet y'all." he says with a little wave. "Calvin has talked about you."  
  
It's just enough to make them shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry it took so long for this chapter, i was moving out to college. classes start next week so unfortunately TIL might be on the backburner for a while. :(( i will try to get at least one chapter out a week, but i can't promise anything. thank you so much for reading this and i hope you stick around through this transition hiatus. love you all! <3


	23. Not Enough Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: minor homophobia, racism, and ableism (in the white middle class bullshit kind of way)

It is as Hater predicted: an awkward dinner. For a few minutes after his introduction, there's nothing but the scraping of dishes and furtive glances. Some are accusing, some just confused. This was the person Calvin had chosen, and it didn't seem at all like the man they had known. They wondered, perhaps, how much else of him was a lie.  
  
"Wouldn't have figured you were one of them." Amanda says finally, her long nails balanced on her cheek. "There so many in the industry, but they're loud."  
  
"It's always the quiet ones that surprise you." Amy says, and though she speaks as light as ever, there is something heavier in it. Something like betrayal.  
  
"Girls." their mother says sharply. Karen was a given loss. She has the sort of ingrained prejudice of her generation, and like many in their family, she was stubborn, not given to admitting she was wrong.  
  
Steven, for his part, just seemed baffled. Like this could never have been part of the equation. He was the sort of man who looked at 'the gays' as a foreign entity, and a high risk one. Now he was in the same room as some, one he knew fairly well, and it didn't make any sense. Calvin was a logical man, he knew the risks of this lifestyle.  
  
"You're going to get yourself killed, doing this." he says to him, shaking his head. As if he were a complete idiot, betting on the rise instead of the fall.  
  
"I survived the Marines." Peepers counters.  
  
"Not intact." Amy says, purposely hurtful.  
  
"Now we'll have no talk of that kind at this table. My boy's a hero!" Mary declares, placing down the salad bowl hard enough to make the table shake.  
  
"I wouldn't go that far, Ma."  
  
"Son, I'd just let her be." his father says, as always a man of peace.  
  
"I thought you were working on your self esteem, cariño." Hater says, and his term of affection once again strikes the rest of them dumb. Except for Owen, who comes to a great realization. He pulls Hater's face down to his eye level, looking over the tattoos with interest.  
  
"That's it! I was wondering who could have done such fantastic art, and you've reminded me. Los Angeles. Who was it exactly?"  
  
"Um, Ramos, I think. Ativo Ramos." Hater says, not expecting an expert in the tattoo world at this particular crowd. Nor one so eager to manhandle him just for a look.  
  
"The late senior, rest his soul, or his son?"  
  
"Both, at some point. The dad did the skull."  
  
"Fascinating. I've always envied the realists. They've just got to copy the model. Not that it doesn't take skill." he says, patting his cheek.  
  
"Uncle Owen, please let him go." Peepers says with fond exasperation. Naturally, he didn't care one iota about him being gay. He was purely artistic, almost unhealthily. The rest of the world was of no concern.  
  
"So what is it that you **do** exactly, Doctor?" Karen asks, her voice still serrated and distrustful.  
  
"Harry is fine." he says with a smile. Peepers isn't sure how he manages it. Experience makes even the hardest things routine, he supposed.  
  
"I'm an astrophysicist. I got my undergrad in the UC circuit, my masters too. I did my doctoral research with my mentor on gravity wells and thermodynamics. Mostly in regards to black holes and other hard to explain phenomenon. I needed a change, so I transferred to the Johnson center and now work in exoplanets with Calvin."  
  
"And that's the only reason you left California?" Karen probes, searching, as always, for a scandal.  
  
"No. I also love music, metal and rock especially, and I have an old friend in the city. She knows the people you need to know. How could I pass that up?"  
  
"From scientist to musician. Seems like a fall for you." she says, and Peepers knows it's a test. Karen loves music, has been teaching it for decades, and a man without respect for it wasn't worth her time. Before he can warn Hater, he's already speaking.  
  
"I don't think so. I've been both for a long time. One I'm good at naturally, the other takes some hard work. I'm more of a Cézanne, figuring it out."  
  
"Ah! He knows his impressionists!" Owen says, proud as only an artist can be. He gives Hater a high five. Amy and Amanda giggle, and their mother glares at them.  
  
"Well then. You won't mind showing us some of your work after dinner."  
  
"Oh, thank you, but I don't have my guitar with me."  
  
"There's a piano in the living room. You play, don't you?"  
  
"Yes." he says, but it sounds like more a question. "It's been a few years." he admits.  
  
"Well, all the better to relearn." Karen says, and stabs a piece of ham.  
  


* * *

The rest of dinner is held to polite small talk once more, with the exclusion of Peepers and company, part anger, part to keep Mama from attacking. He can't say he minds. It's less awkward, if a little more hurtful.  
  
With all hands on deck, the dishes are rinsed and dried much too quickly, and everyone drifts into the living room. The graceful grand piano there stands like a dragon in a castle.  
  
Hater has never been one to back away from a challenge.  
  
He sits on the bench, pops open the lid of the piano, cracks his knuckles. Pokes a few keys, notes ringing softly under conversation. He tries a scale, flubs up almost half the notes. Amanda, certainly her mother's daughter, stares in near horror. Karen though, looks smug. Peepers places a hand on his shoulder, ready to say he doesn't have to do this. Doesn't have to prove himself to them, they don't deserve it.  
  
But he's not phased. He's sheepish but smiling and he's already trying again. He misses less this time, even less the next, and by the time he does the whole scale completely, everyone is watching. A round of applause breaks out, and he blushes.  
  
"Gracias, everybody." he says, with a deep bow. "Any requests?" he asks cheekily, looking at Karen. She huffs, turns her head away.  
  
"I don't suppose you know anything jazzy." Steven says. Hater, like his boyfriend, has trouble telling if he's actually serious, but catches a twinkle hiding behind sea glass eyes.  
  
"Not on this. Too much to hope you have a guitar on you?" he jokes.  
  
"I have one." Owen says, to everyone's surprise.  
  
"Why?" Peepers asks, but it could have come from anyone.  
  
"Why not?" he replies, which is no answer at all. "I'll go get it." And he does, and though it's scratched and covered in faded stickers, in Hater's hands, it looks amazing. Especially as he carefully tunes each string with a care not even Karen could deny.  
  
"So. Jazzy, you said. Let me think." he says, and plucks a scale easily from the strings, warming it up. Hater grins on the last note. "Got it."  
  
You know that feeling you get at a concert, that rush of adrenaline and joy? Hater seems to have captured a little of it for whenever he performs. A rock star in sound only.  
  
"The maddest kind of love is a love you know is wrong. It burns a hole right through your soul, and cuts you like a knife." he sings, his voice dipping low until the end, rising to middle C on a wave of eighth notes.  
  
"Very good." Steven says, nodding deeply, and suddenly Peepers has an idea of why he's really doing this. He was trying to win them over, one by one, however he could. All for him.  
  
Peepers all but melts into his side, partially out of adoration, but mostly to whisper the answers in his ear. He didn't have to fight his whole family alone.  
  
"The twins love Fall Out Boy, and Aunt Karen is a musical nut."  
  
"Cheater." he accuses, and kisses his cheek.  
  


* * *

If this were a movie, that would be it. The power of love and music would be enough. But this isn't. There's no script, no director to push them to the right path. All this is a seed, a little piece of information that doesn't fit into their usual assumptions. But given enough water, light, and care, it could grow. Some soils could bear roses of understanding and love. Some were only good enough for Venus flytraps, carnivorous beasts that could only defend their own.  
  
Peepers, like the boy who traded his cow for three magic beans, is just hoping for **something**.  
  
Alas, there's a sandstorm on the horizon, a whirlwind of deadly particles that destroys many a plant. Though at first glance, you wouldn't think she could harm anything. She was just an old lady, right?  
  
The doorbell rings like the church bell counting the dead. Dad goes to answer, closest to the door, but it's Peepers who first identifies the cloaked figure.  
  
"Oma." he breathes, and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i should do a consistent pov for this so it's not confusing   
> also me: nah fuck that
> 
> the song hater sings a verse from is 'the maddest kind of love' by big bad voodoo daddy by the way! i found it on darkwingsnarks death glare playlist on 8tracks 'me and my broken heart' which you should def check out :D


	24. Good Old Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: minor homophobia, racism, and ableism, mentions of emotional abuse, suicide, and self harm

Amy Fulcher was never the most careful in the family. Headstrong, they called it, when being nice. Reckless when not. But even she is cautious following after her cousin, up the stairs and in the farthest bedroom, the one in the corner. She tiptoes to the door, rapping her knuckles against the wood.  
  
"Calvin? Are you in there?" she asks. No response. She opens the door just a crack, and there he is. Sitting at the foot of his childhood bed, his sleeves rolled up, staring at the wall. There are sewing scissors in his hand.  
  
He isn't crying. He's beyond that.  
  
"I'm coming in." she says. Calvin's gaze doesn't move a centimeter. He just stares at the drywall and is blank.  
  
When she gets closer, she can see the scars. Long and thin and parallel. Like the tickmarks on a ruler, all fractured across his arms. Patches of skin, two, three inches long. She looks at the scissors. They're clean.  
  
"I was going to." he says, seeing where her eyes look out of the corner of his. "But then she'd be right."  
  
"Who would?" she asks, sitting down next to him.  
  
"Oma. She'd say I was broken and wrong. She'd be right. But not because of him." he  says, fingers reaching up to touch the patch.  
  
"I'm sorry. For what I said at dinner. I was angry, but it was wrong."  
  
"Don't be. There's no point in pretending." he says, mouth tipping into a fake smile. "They used to call it shell shock. Now it's PTSD. Fancy. Whatever you call it I'm getting better. There's no point in bothering you in the meantime."  
  
"Don't you get it? I **want** you to bother me!" she snaps, curling her hands into fists. She sighs, releases them. "I wasn't mad about Harry. I was mad you didn't tell me."  
  
"What?" he says, his head finally turning towards her. He looks like a deer in the headlights, startled to full stop.  
  
"Cal, when we were kids, you would talk to me. Not a lot, you were too smart for that. But you really needed someone, I would listen. You used to trust me." she says, tears starting to well up in her eyes.  
  
"Once you joined, you stopped. It was like the whole world became your enemy. Even us. Even me. I lost you when **I** really needed someone." she says, shoulders hunched, tears dripping uninterrupted on her jeans.  
  
"Why would you need me? You have Amanda and your parents and -"  
  
"James." she says, with contempt.  
  
"What happened to you guys? I was at your wedding, no one could be more in love. It was perfect. You were perfect!" he says, almost accusatory.  
  
"No." she says definitively, back straightening. "It just looked perfect. Even to us, at first. But he changed. He started making comments when I would go on site, mean things. When I confronted him about it, he made me feel like it was my fault. And there were other things, he would read my messages, checking for other men. He wouldn't let me hang out with my friends without him.  It was all so tiny though, I thought, it couldn't be abuse. Abuse didn't happen to people like us. Plus every time I felt wronged, he turned it back. I was the one overreacting."  
  
"The moment I realized just how bad it had  gotten, I was going to go out shopping for baby things. I'd just told him I was expecting, waited to be sure I wouldn't lose the baby. I was so excited to be a mother. I ask if I can go out without him, he wouldn't find it very interesting anyway. He says, fine, since no man in his right mind would want a whale like me. And I realize, why do I have to ask **him**  permission? I'm a grown woman. That's when I really saw how far I'd fallen. How much of a coward I became."  
  
"Amy, you're not a coward. You were brave, to get out of it." he says, automatic, reaching for her hand. She pulls it away. Everyone always tries to comfort her, but she doesn't deserve it.  
  
"It's my fault. I should have stronger, I should have stood up for myself. I shouldn't even be complaining to you. You're the brave one! You're the veteran, the **gay** veteran! I came here to help you and made it about me! I'm -"  
  
"Useless? Pathetic? A waste of time and space and matter? Is that what you think?"  
  
"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid."  
  
"That's because it is stupid. You're amazing, Amy. You're smart and funny and kind and so much stronger than you think."  
  
She looks at her cousin, and sees no pity, no fakeness behind his words. He believes them with a simple honesty she has long forgotten. Amy pulls him into a hug, because words are not within her grasp. He wraps his arms around her back, rests his chin on her shoulder. It's like that for a few moments, silent and solid. Two broken pieces fitting together.  
  
"How did you know that I...that I felt like that?"  
  
"Because at the end of the day, love and war are much the same, and we got the short end of the stick."  
  


* * *

Hater jumps up as soon as Peepers flees, ready to follow him, but a hand on his shoulder makes him stop. He turns back and sees the paint-splattered man, the uncle, Owen, shaking his head.  
  
"Don't. This one he needs to do on his own."  
  
"How do you know?" he says, not inclined to believe the man with a screw loose, no matter how kindly.  
  
"Trust me. I know that boy." he says, and there is an obvious truth in it, a bond stretching over the decades, back to when it mattered most.  
  
Reluctantly, Hater nods. The hand on his shoulder falls.  
  
"Good. Let's have a talk, you and I." he says, walking towards the back porch. It isn't a request, it's an order. No threat upon disobedience, save curiosity unsated. Punishment enough for the scientist. He follows.  
  
The back porch is insulated from the cold, much like a sunroom, but lacking furniture or proper flooring. All there is are snow shovels and a rusted old grill with a can of propane.  
  
Owen pulls out a small tin box with a pretty pattern on it from his pocket, filled with thin European cigarettes. A zippo lighter soon follows as he balances one on his lip. He offers the tin to Hater.  
  
"You smoke?"  
  
"Not much." he says, grabbing one for himself, holding it out to be lit. "Too often."  
  
"Amen to that." Owen says, lighting his own. The next few minutes are filled only with the huff and puff of tobacco, smoke curling towards the snow-covered roof.  
  
"From the moment Calvin was born, he was perfect." Owen finally says, breaking the silence. "As a baby, he rarely cried. He slept when he was supposed to. As he grew up, he became intelligent, observant, curious but never too annoying. He was kind, thoughtful. His only real vice was a stubborn temper, which Maria was well-equipped to handle."  
  
"It was only when he came to my studio that I saw the rest of it. The things he hid, his fears and feelings he kept in a bottle with a tight lid. He admitted to me that sometimes, he didn't feel like being the better person, but he had to. He had to make up for something terrible about himself. At the time, I didn't understand. He was everything a family could want. Now, I do."  
  
"He was too smart for his own good. As soon as he recognized his feelings weren't right, he tried to fix it. When he couldn't, he fixed everything else. Certainly didn't help, growing up when he did. Everything a mix of here and gone. Do you remember it?"  
  
"Yes." he says, heavily. He was older than Peepers, not by much, but enough to remember more. Remember the rallies, the protests, the things people said. That it was retribution from God for the sinners. Hater knew better. He saw sinners every day and God wasn't striking them down.  
  
"You understand then. This isn't something you can fix for him. He's never been the family disappointment before. Not like us." Hater snorts.  
  
"I wasn't even that much." he says, a little bitter, until he really catches what he's said. "How did you -"  
  
"A man with a happy life doesn't go to Ativo Ramos. He was a good man, but he specialized in pain. His son less so. That's why I asked."  
  
"Did you ever go to him?" he asks, curious always. Owen smiles, a sad one, and rolls up the arm of his sleeve. There's a beautiful design of a suspension bridge, grey wires tinted pink by a sunrise.  
  
"1972. I was twenty-three, lost, hopelessly addicted to cocaine. It's early in the morning, the sun is rising, and I think I'm not good enough to be here. I jump into the river. The water's cold, but not enough. I get rescued, and I realize we don't a lot of second chances. I don't waste mine."  
  
"I'm sorry. That you felt that way. I'm glad you're still here." he says, repeating his past self, because it's a decision that always needs to be affirmed. That the choice was the right one.  
  
"Funny. No one's ever said that. They don't seem to know what to say. You know then? Firsthand?"  
  
"Not exactly. But like you said, you don't go to Ramos if you're happy." he says, dropping the spent cigarette to the concrete.  
  
"I know I can't **make** him believe anything. But I'm gonna keep reminding him of everything I see in him. So maybe, when he looks in the mirror, one day he'll see it too." he says, staring the man down. Owen smiles again, and this one is proud.  
  
"He always did have good taste, Calvin. Glad to see it hasn't changed."  
  


* * *

The lovers meet on the stairwell, where Hater hugs him so tight the air in his lungs empties itself in one long wheeze. Still, he doesn't grudge it. He could use that strength today.  
  
"Are you ok?" he asks, brushing a loose strand of hair from in front of his bad eye. "Relatively?"  
  
"Yes." he manages, still a bit winded.  
  
"You don't have to tell her." Hater reminds him. "We can sneak out back, and whatever they think, they can hold a secret." he says, giving him a literal way out. And he's tempted, very much so, but shakes his head.  
  
"No. No more secrets. I've waited long enough." he says, making himself stand as tall as he could. Not much, empirically. But hopefully enough. He reaches for Hater's hand. "Stay with me?"  
  
"Through thick and thin." he promises.  
  
"Promise one day we'll get to the thin part." Peepers says, standing on his tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek.  
  
He pokes his head around the corner, sees Dad keeping Oma seated with his chatter, intentional this time. He gives him a questioning look, just for a second, and he nods his affirmation. Now or never.  
  
Hilda Johnson doesn't look like she could harm anyone. Age had shrunk her already small frame so she appeared almost doll-like, skin pale as porcelain. It was stretched thin over her bones, with only little lumps of fat keeping her from looking hawkish. Her teeth were permanently yellow but still her own, which was worth admiration. She was always squinting, for not even the glasses balanced on her nose could fix the damage time wrought.  
  
"Ah Calvin!" she says as he approaches, pulling him into a flimsy hug that smells of mothballs, butterscotch, and that perfume only the aged could find. "So? Where's my new granddaughter? You can't hide her forever, my dear." she says, eyes bright with excitement.  
  
"No, I can't." he says, a little sad. If Karen was a given loss, Oma was a given explosion. Beyond any flimsy hope he might have constructed.  
  
He nods at Hater, peeking around the corner like a boy who broke a vase and didn't know whether to tell it. He comes forward, trying to look smaller and less threatening, each step slow and deliberate.  
  
With the sun sinking below the horizon and the electric lights not yet turned on, he seems almost like a ghost, a phantom not really there.  
  
"Oma, this is Harold. My boyfriend." he says, reaching for his hand, and Hilda does indeed explode.  
  
Peepers isn't sure he's ever heard that many offensive terms put together in so short a timeframe, though at least it's 'colored' instead of the alternative. Homosexual is chief among them, in the most accusatory and disgusted sense. There's quite a few appeals to the Lord, funny, considering how private faith was otherwise to her.  
  
Despite being expected, despite the knowing, it's still painful to endure. There's a venom to it only family could manage, and if words' affects could be seen, he'd be more full of holes than a piece of Swiss cheese.  
  
But when she brings up Opa, says he'd be ashamed, Peepers finds himself laughing. A kind of broken, hysterical thing that stops her completely.  
  
"What on **Earth** are you laughing about?!" she spits, which only makes it worse. When he does stop, his eye is filled with tears, making the whole room watery.  
  
"Opa loved me. He'll **always** love me, no matter what you try to force in his mouth. I'm just starting to love me too, for whatever I am, and whoever I love. And now I see what's so fucking obvious. I don't need you. I don't need you to accept me. I'm worth so much more than that. Whatever you say about me, it's not true. I'm **beautiful** , I am **wonderful** , and I'm not wasting the rest of my Christmas on you." he declares, grinning, and believing just for this moment, in someone looking out for him. Not God. Himself.  
  
He can't see the others, hiding in the shadows, but they most certainly saw him.  
  
"Come on, Hater. Let's go home." he says, and kisses him on the lips, a casual, everyday thing between two men who loved each other. Normal, and right.  
  
Still, it's enough to daze him, to make Hater laugh with joy as they walk out the door, the echoing thunder of it the last sign of the lovebirds.  
  
Flying to greener pastures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cried four times writing/editing this pls help the johnsons


	25. Think You're So Good

They barely make it to the rental car before Hater kisses him with a sort of urgent adoration he's not sure he'll ever be able to get used to. It's surprising every time, like a jolt of electricity. But this kind of surprise is never unwelcome.  
  
"I don't know how you expect me to drive when you're doing that." Peepers says as they pull apart.  
  
"I love you. I'm so proud of you, you were amazing." he says, cupping his cheek. It seemed he could not just pretend that what happened had not, that he hadn't just stood up to what had always seemed an unstoppable force.  
  
"I love you too. But it wasn't...I mean it was but...I just **had** to." he says, never great at explanation without a plan. And there had been no plan here. It just was.  
  
"That's what I love about you."  
  
"Just that?" he says, a little teasing, trying to keep some semblance of still being together after all that, instead of the truth, that he was a stitched together mess with frayed edges.  
  
"No. But the universe would run out of space before I'd name them all."  
  
"Oh." he says, once again knocked off kilter. It was frustrating, how easily he managed to do that. "That's...really gay."  
  
"Absolutely." he says with a smile, kissing him again. "I'll drive." he says, snatching the keys from his hand while he was still dazed.  
  
"There is such thing as being too perfect, you know!" he accuses, sliding into the passenger seat.  
  
"Nothing is too perfect for you."  
  
Peepers punches him in the arm.  


* * *

They thankfully get to the hotel without Hater finding some new way to make him flush, either from anger or affection. Or both. He had a uncanny knack for it. Alas, it once again pops up in the form of a box wrapped up in newspaper, placed in his hands as he slides under the covers.  
  
"What's this?" he asks, looking between his partner and the box.  
  
"Your Christmas present. I was saving it in case things went sour."  
  
"Hater, you shouldn't have!"  
  
"Why? I make enough money."  
  
"But I didn't get you anything!" he says, distraught. How could he have been so stupid?! He'd gotten everyone else's gifts months in advance, all sent away and ready. But he hadn't even thought about getting something for the man most important to him.  
  
"Yes, you did. You let me come with you." he soothes, running fingers through his hair. Peepers sighs, curling up against him.  
  
"I don't think that counts as a present." he grumbles, especially considering the rudeness he'd been subjected to. "Not when you'll just come next year anyway."  
  
"Is that a guarantee?" he asks, looking thrilled at the prospect, though he can't imagine why. The holidays were so awkward at times, so anxiety-inducing. Although his main point of avoidance had just been blown to pieces.  
  
"Assuming you haven't run away by then." he replies.  
  
"Never." he says, placing a kiss in his hair. "Now come on, open it!"  
  
"I'll get you something when we're back home. It's rude to only get and not give." he says, not wanting to be a leech in this relationship. Hater waves his concerns away like flies.  
  
"Fine by me. Now **please** open it, I'm no good at waiting." he says, practically vibrating in his excitement.  
  
"Clearly." he says dryly, kisses away the pout it earns.  
  
He's careful with the paper, even though it's just print, running his fingernail under the seam so the temporary tape pops free. It isn't a very pretty job, triangles folded multiple times over, the ribbons tied in odd, tight knots. But it was clearly done with love, which was the real point.  
  
Once they're off, he smoothes the pages down as much as possible, because if he doesn't, he won't be able to stop thinking about it. Peepers folds the paper over twice, setting it parallel in front of him. Despite Hater's eagerness for his gift to be opened, he doesn't rush him during this at all.  
  
It's one of those little things he loves about Hater, like a star against the background of the universe. Fascinating and bright all on its own, but part of a much bigger, grander picture. There was no need to worry about it filling up to capacity, because each day the space-time of his adoration grew with almost unfathomable magnitude.  
  
It swells once again as he looks down at the present, a build-it-yourself model of a military plane, complete with pilot, gunner, and bomber.  
  
"You said you needed a hobby. Something to occupy your mind." Hater explains, voice a little fast, nervous. "You had a lot of books about World War 2, and you're good with details. The guy at the hobby shop said it was a uh...a...."  
  
"B-24. Used from 1941 to 1968, though never preferred." Peepers supplies. "A flying coffin, they called it."  
  
"Do you like it?"  
  
"I love it." he says, reaching up to kiss him and make it concrete. Though it ends up becoming rather more heated, fingers rucking up his shirt and splaying across his stomach. It's halted only by the loud thump of the box falling to the floor.  
  
Peepers hurriedly pulls away, feeling embarrassed, then concerned for the present's wellbeing. A quick inspection finds it unharmed, but kills any sort of mood that might have been created.  
  
"Sorry." he says, placing the box carefully on the bedside table.  
  
"S'alright. Bit late for anything anyway." he says, wrapping his arms around him and giving a long, drawn out yawn. "Besides, we've got all day tomorrow." he says suggestively, complete with smirk. Peepers rolls his eye.  
  
"You've got a lot of nerve." he says, but there's no real bite behind it.  
  
"Why? Did I hit one?" he teases.  
  
"I'm not making out with you all day, Hater."  
  
"I'll settle for half."  
  
"You are impossible."  
  
"You love me."  
  
"Tragically." he says, and kisses him just to get him to shut up. It's very effective. 

* * *

The nightmares are almost always there, even with the medicine. They roll in front of his eyes, replaying memories of the base and what happened there in too much detail.  
  
This time, it's different.  
  
He's still in uniform, everything pressed and shiny, the whispered 'too clean.' But the dirt and chain link fences are gone, replaced with pews and the smell of old books. Church. Why was he in a church? He'd never visited the tiny chapel on base, technically non-denominational, but filled mostly with crosses and the men who wore them come Sunday. Why the last time he'd been in a church was -  
  
Suddenly the entire room is packed, so many people as to spill into the outer aisles, and the bells are ringing, ringing so loud that his knees fall out from under him,  palms pressed until they crunch against his ears. The organ's notes sob through the cracks, Here Comes the Bride.  
  
The song doesn't lie.  
  
It's Amy, wearing that same dress of lace and fluff she did years ago. She's beautiful, pristine. Perfect. But for each step to the groom, tears fall, and they are not happy.  
  
_I was the one overreacting._  
  
_He changed._  
  
_It was so tiny._  
  
_It couldn't be._  
  
_It doesn't happen to people like us._  
  
Right before she reaches the end, she turns back to him. Her smile is soft and desperate.  
  
"I really needed someone." she whispers, and is kissed by the groom. Everyone is cheering, but Peepers can scarcely hear them anymore. All he can see is the forgotten bouquet of red roses.  
  
Their petals fluttering to the floor.  


* * *

It's in the early morning Peepers finds himself most grateful for Hater's deep sleep. He doesn't have to see him at his worst, when he's still picking apart the pieces of then and now. He doesn't have to see this half-formed creature of guilt and despair. His love is useless in the morning, for some things can not be fixed from the outside.  
  
A shower, a toothbrush, three pills on the back of his tongue build an armor, keep the past - locked in a cage of twilight bars. To remember is to dismember, to destroy the man who needs to move on. So as he packs his belongings, he pushes and pushes and thinks of today, of the future, til yesterday fades.  
  
There might not be a God, but thank God there's coffee, insecticide on giant, Calculus-making monkeys. The alpha groans, but dutifully follows the cause. Gives a kiss. Ruffles hair, unaware what he missed. For the best.  
  
He needs rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long hiatus guys, i've just been adjusting to college and finding time+inspiration to write has been really hard. things are probably going to be a bit on and off, update wise, at least until i get used to managing my time and energy better. 
> 
> alt titles: im dreaming of a gay christmas, Dang Peepers has Guilt problems


	26. Ignorance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: some mild consent issues (it's all worked out but just a heads up)

Two days after they get back, Peepers gifts Hater a tour-only t-shirt of one of his favorite bands from 1984. He says it wasn't all that hard actually, with the Internet. That doesn't stop Hater from crying and nearly cracking his ribs with a hug.  
  
But there's something different after the trip, a shift. Nothing drastic, but important. They stop hanging out every day. Not because they're avoiding each other, but because they don't have to. They trust that he'll still be there tomorrow, the day after.  
  
Peepers learns to spend time alone by choice and not feel lonely or frightened. He learns to tune out his own thoughts, meditates, works on his model, makes himself calm, just for a bit. He doesn't rush his meetings with the Zbornak at their contractual Bloyd's arrangement. They're still not friends, obviously, but he has her number in his phone. Just in case.  
  
Hater spends more time with his beloved Timmy and Ripov, meets the girl he's heard so much about. Beeza's pretty and nice and listens when he talks about his boyfriend long after Ripov has stopped.  
  
The two part-time rockers go to concerts of indie bands, open-mic nights, bars with sax players. One night after hearing him play, a girl with a tongue ring and spiked blonde hair hands him her business card. Her stage name is Dominator and she's the lead singer for an up-and-coming punk band, The Lava Bots. Their sounds aren't quite compatible, but she's willing to loan him her drummer and base, with one stipulation.  
  
"You've gotta come to my New Year's party. All the big-shots will be there. Bring someone cute." she demands, bopping his nose with a long, manicured nail.  
  
"No problem there." he says, and she smiles a sharp-toothed, almost sinister grin.  
  
"Good."  
  


* * *

"I don't know, Hater." Peepers says when he brings it up on a date. Since the businesses are still mostly closed, they've been spending them in the apartments, cuddling or necking on the couch. Right now it's the former. Peepers is tracing nonsense on Hater's shirt, eye following an invisible pattern. "I'm...not much of a party person."  
  
"Aw, babe! It'll be fun! It's not gonna be like Halloween."  
  
"No. It'll be worse." he says, matter of fact. "These are rock stars. It's going to be loud and crowded and chaotic. Not my scene." he says definitively.  
  
"Yea. You're right." he says gloomily. He'd known it was a long shot. "I don't know. This is just a big deal for me. I really wanted you to be there. I know it's not your thing. I just...figured I'd ask." Hater says, dejected. Peepers hates seeing him look like that.  
  
"Maybe I could come. Just for a little bit." he cedes, and Hater's whole face lights up like a Christmas tree.  
  
"Really?!"  
  
"Really. But you're staying with me the whole time. No wandering off!" he commands.  
  
"Sir, yes sir." he says cheekily, and Peepers tries to scowl at him, but he can't quite manage. Curse being in love, it's a curse too many beg for. Better than he could ever have hoped for.  
  
Better than he deserves.  
  


* * *

"This is ridiculous." Peepers says as he peers into the mall Spencer's, dim lighting glinting off shot glasses and bongs. Commercialized seedy. "I'm not going in there."  
  
"Well, it's this or Hot Topic." Hater says, pointing down the hallway. A girl exits with a face more metal than skin, and he steps even closer to his partner.  
  
"I don't see what's wrong with my wardrobe." he says, voice a little higher than usual.  
  
"Nothing. You'll just look like a square."  
  
"I'm more of a rectangular prism."  
  
" **That's** what I'm talking about, Peeps." he says, shaking his head. "Look, I'm not saying you have to change. It'll just be easier if you look the part." he explains. Peepers sighs, takes a deep breath.  
  
"Alright. If you can do it for four days, I guess I can manage a few hours." he says. "I'm not purchasing anything with cannabis on it though." Hater snorts.  
  
"Well, if anyone is eligible for medicinal weed..." he says significantly.  
  
"You infuriate me." he says, marching into the store. Hater laughs as he follows.  
  
The first half of the store is pretty much entirely marijuana and reggae-based, so Peepers is quick to slide past. Hater does look at some Bob Marley stuff, rolling his eyes that this is what he's been reduced to. White people.  
  
There's at least two rows of gag gifts, mugs with slurs on them and all sorts of wacky but mostly offensive items. When Peepers peeks behind a screen, hoping to find band shirts, he turns so red he almost blends into the brick.  
  
When Hater finds him, he's still staring, shocked still. He follows the gaze and even his cheeks turn a little pink. The infamous sex toy wall lays before them, unashamed. Vibrators, dildos, handcuffs, lingerie, gargantuan bottles of lube, all neatly packed and priced.  
  
"P-People sure are...creative with this stuff." Peepers says, laughing uncomfortably. It reminds Hater all too much of the fact they haven't talked about this yet. Not beyond the obvious of there being sexual attraction. Nothing about experience or preferences or when they wanted to start adding that step to their relationship. It was just so **awkward**.  
  
Maybe it wasn't something to be talked about all at once. It certainly wasn't being started here. Hater grabs his wrist.  
  
"I think shirts are this way." he says, leading him away as quickly as possible.  
  
Hater's right, for once, and as a bonus, many of them are on clearance. Peepers sifts through them, sliding the more crude ones to the left. He ends up picking out three possibilities, folding them over his forearm as they squeeze into the doorway to the changing rooms.  
  
A man in too-tight skinny jeans hands him a card, and since Hater takes up the whole hallway, he drags him into the room with him. It's only shirts after all, and his chest is hardly interesting.  
  
He folds up his own t-shirt and slides on the first, a medium with Metallica printed on it in white. Mediums must be different where they make these, because it almost slides off his shoulders , the hem pooling around his mid-thighs.  
  
"Heh. This might work better for you, huh Ha-ter?" he says, his last word cut in half when he sees Hater glaring at him. He tilts his head to the side. "What? I don't look that bad, do I?"  
  
His questions only grow when he crowds him up against the wall and starts kissing down his neck, making him shudder and groan.  
  
"Hater! What are you doing?" he whispers, like a secret.  
  
"Do you want me to stop?" he growls, voice low, the words vibrating across his skin. It makes his heart thump rabbit pace in his chest.  
  
"Not...really but-" His protests are cut off when teeth sink into his neck, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his moan. When they first started this, he was quiet, scared that someone would catch them. Now that Hater had lured down his guard, they actually might be.  
  
It takes him a second, but he pushes him away, bracing himself against the wall, since his legs still feel like mush. When he finally managed to look up at Hater, he's horrified.  
  
"I-I'm sorry." he says, hands shaking. "I didn't...I wasn't listening to you. I almost did something horrible." he says, backing away as far as he could.  
  
"No, no! I liked it! It's just...not **here**. We're too old for that." he jokes, but his smile isn't enough.  
  
"I shouldn't have. Not without asking."  
  
"You made a mistake, that's all. I'm not mad at you." he says, walking up to him, grabbing his hands in his. "I guess we should probably figure out what we expect, though." Apparently they were having this conversation here.  
  
"I don't **expect** anything from you." Hater says, because it's obvious how scared he is, that he wasn't enough right now. "It just...would be nice. Someday. Maybe soon?" he asks, hopefully.  
  
"I don't know. I want to, it's just..." he sighs, looking away. "I don't know how." he admits, embarrassed.  
  
"What like, mentally? With the internalized homophobia shit?"  
  
"No. Like...physically. I've never done it before."  
  
"With a guy?"  
  
"With **anyone**!" he snaps, before bowing his shoulders. "Please don't laugh at me."  
  
Hater is far from laughing. Suddenly a lot of little things made sense. The way he'd bunched his hands in his lap when they were kissing in the movie theatre, like he didn't know where to put them. He didn't. How nervous he was, the time after it. Even the time after that. How he seemed surprised by his own body. Hater had thought it was sensitivity, but it wasn't. He didn't have any experience. But he didn't want to mess up.  
  
"Hey." he says, tilting his chin up. "That's good."  
  
"How is this good?" he demands, self-loathing. No doubt he's gotten his fair share of teasing, or worse, for it.  
  
"That means I get to be the one to help you figure it out. Whenever you're ready." he says, kissing his temple.  "Just be honest. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Well...you've got limits too. Right? Stuff you don't like. I don't want to make you uncomfortable either." he says, determined. It makes his heart melt in the edges.  
  
"There isn't much I wouldn't do for you. But I'll tell you. I promise."  
  
"Ok." he says, exhaling, standing tall again. Well, tall for him. "I did like it. A lot. Maybe when we get home?" he asks, biting his lip.  
  
"As you wish." he says, and Peepers scowls.  
  
"On second thought, maybe I should throw you out."  
  
"Aw babe! You know what I meant!"  
  
"Yes, and it was beyond cheesy! What you're going to come back from the dead for me?"  
  
"He was only **mostly** dead, first of all. And I did promise already."  
  
"I guess you did." he says, shrugging off the shirt and putting his back on. "Alright, I forgive you." he says, meaning more than just his cheesy remarks, and Hater knows it.  
  
"Thanks."  
  


* * *

Peepers does end up buying the Metallica shirt, along with two that actually fit him. You know, for someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these guys need to talk through some shit i fucking swear to god


	27. I Miss - I Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: alcohol abuse, alluded to drug use, mental illness fuckery, emotophobia and sexual themes ahead

Peepers is right, as usual, about the party. They can already hear the music through the metal doors of the elevator, once they hit the top floor. Hater bets he would be telling him as much, if he weren't gripping his arm so tight he's starting to lose feeling. 

"It's going to be ok, Peeps." he promises, voice soothing. "We don't even have to take another step if you don't want." 

"Of course I don't **want** to be here." he snaps, his usual high-strung, so Hater's long forgotten the sting of it. "But this is important to you. I'll manage." he says, a man on a mission. 

"If you're sure." he says, still ready to give him an out, even though he's been looking forward to this all week. He'd be sad, maybe a little mad too, but everything else was so small compared to how much Peepers meant to him. 

"Positive." he says, resolute. The veteran takes a deep breath, steadying. "It's just a party. Raucous, but I've survived worse." 

"It isn't a war zone." Hater teases, as they walk closer and closer to the apartment. He's linked their hands together, partially so he can feel his fingers again, but there's a part of him that's nervous too. Not that he'd ever say as much. "You might even have fun." 

"Yea, sure." Peepers snorts, a thin smile stretching across his lips. He adds one to the counter, past a hundred now. Hater's quite proud of the accomplishment. 

They've made it to the penthouse apartment, the door held open, and look in on a stereotypical image of carnal rebellion. There's dancing, or perhaps a clothed orgy, taking up most of the main area. Bottles of beer and harder spirits line the tables, a glint of even more behind the black slat stairwell. Conversations are mostly made of shouts, and it's easier to pick out the natural hair than the dyed. On the balcony, smoke curls, and strobe lights glint off of metal piercings like stars. 

Hater takes it all in, and finds himself feeling older than he ever has before. Nothing about the scene has changed since he left it for academia. Oh sure, there's different ink, more girls, and the drugs are kept a little more out of sight. But the essence of it, the rebellion against society, against their norm, remains. 

A norm he's now part of. 

It's strange. He's 'the man' now. The person with the nine-to-five, the 401K. He's no Suburban Joe, not yet. But the rage of it all isn't his anymore. For all the bullshit he still has to deal with, he's happy with his life. Maybe even loves it. 

He's grown up and hadn't realized. 

* * *

Peepers finds Hater's new rocker friend beyond scary. From bleached blonde hair fashioned into spikes to tight leather clothes, she projects an aura of power. She walks up to them seconds after their arrival, oozing confidence and balancing a glass of champagne between two fingers. 

"Well, if it isn't Hater. And company." she says, glancing down at him with a not quite sincere expression. "You've got an odd definition of cute, I must say. I guess...in a mousy kind of way." she says, shrugging. 

"I'm Calvin Johnson. Though most people call me Peepers." he says before Hater can reply, holding out a hand, making her actually look at him. He doesn't really value her opinion, but being ignored irritated him. 

"Yes, the eye." she notes with a huff of a laugh. "A bit on the nose, isn't it? Not that I can talk. It's Dominator." 

"I've heard. Lava Bots, right?" 

"Hm. For now. They're not exactly important, long term." she says, callously cruel. It's strangely intriguing, in a terrible way. She valued her bandmates so little, they might as well be actual robots. "Still, a deal's a deal. I'll give you their numbers, Hater." she says, looking back at him. He looks startled for a moment, lost in his thoughts. Peepers makes a note to ask him about it later. 

"Be careful with Thirteen. Xe're emotional." she says with disgust after plugging the numbers into Hater's phone. He nods and she walks away. 

"Are you al-" 

"I'll go get us something to drink." Hater says hastily, shoving his phone back in his pocket. "You go mingle or something." he says, and rushes off. 

Ok, something really weird was going on with him. What could it be? There wasn't much that happened since they arrived. Just Dominator. 

Peepers' blood froze. Did he... **like** her? He was acting nervous around her, maybe the same kind of nervous he had before trying something 'romantic.' She was very beautiful, in a blunt sort of way. Hater did like girls. A lot. Didn't gush as much about them, now that they were together, but he saw it sometimes. Just little looks, nothing worth being jealous over. Until now. 

Reason told him there was nothing to be worried about. Even if he did **like** her, Hater loved him. He'd just met his family, he was serious about this. About him! 

But reason was never the most persuasive element in his head.

* * *

Hater hadn't meant to leave Peepers alone, even if only for a moment. It was just a lot to take in. If he wasn't meant to do this, what was he? He liked physics. You had to like something to get a doctorate in it, and it came easy to him, natural. But music was his dream ever since he was little, ever since he started seeing people like him making it out of there with words. Rap was a bit too real sometimes, a bit too familiar. Rock and roll though? It was perfect. It was anger and frustration, it was defiance against the world. A middle finger to life. 

Hater can't remember the last time he was angry. Not frustrated or annoyed, that happened. He had a bit of a temper, it flared. But to be really angry, mad at the world? It was almost foreign now. 

The reasons were still good ones: understandable, relatable. Still worth singing about. He just wasn't the man to sing them. Especially now that he had Peepers. 

Peepers, who turned every lyric in his brain into a love song. Whose smiles were worth everything. Who was a little broken, jagged on the edges, but surviving. Living day by day. Hater hadn't known it was possible to love someone that much. 

He adores him even when he comes back and Peepers drinks both cups of beer, in **blue** Solos funnily enough, in two large gulps. Anxiety-fueled drinking. That was familiar. Made sense too, these things were hardly any fun without something to addle the senses. Alcohol was the cheapest, and the most legal. 

"Let's dance." Peepers says once he's done, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the mosh/orgy pit. 

"What?" he says, shocked. Alcohol was not that fast. "Do you even know how to dance?" 

"Only one way to find out." he says, with a weirdly sharp smile, pulling them into the heart of it. 

Thank goodness Hater's taller than most of them, but that doesn't stop him from feeling way too many strangers' hips bouncing against his leg. It must be even harder for Peepers. 

"Babe? You ok down there?" he shouts, trying to be heard over the thrum of music, like an earthquake this close. His jaw nearly drops off when he sees him dancing along. Club-dancing, very sexual. God he did not need to know that Peepers could move like that, not when there was still no chance of going anywhere. It was hardly perfect, all clumsy and inexperienced, but the awkwardness usually bound to his boyfriend had left. 

Peepers suddenly wraps his arms around his neck, hoisting himself up his body with an easy strength that should not be as hot as it was. 

"Kiss me." he demands, breathing right in his ear so he doesn't have to yell. It sends shivers down his spine, but something feels...wrong. 

"Here?" he asks, looking around them. A bunch of strangers all around who could and would definitely see them? That didn't sound like Peepers. None of it had, since he came back. "Are you sure?" 

"Aw, nervous?" he teases, and kisses him anyway. It's sloppy, a little too rough, wrong angle. His nails are digging into his neck, and the tongue suddenly down his throat tastes suspiciously like Stoli. 

"How much have you drank?!" he says as he pulls away, still a little in shock. 

"Oh, you know. Four, five, seven, nine, who caaares!" he says, laughing the last word. 

"I do." he says, wrapping his arms around him and pushing them out. "I'm taking you somewhere quiet." 

"Private room. Sounds **fun**." he says suggestively, kicking his legs against his stomach lightly. "Did you come prepared?" 

"I'm just going to ignore you from now on." he says, for sober Peepers' sake. Sober, somewhat prudish Peepers, who most definitely did not want to have sex in some stranger's apartment. 

Hater sticks his head in a few rooms, finding gambling, drugs and hearing the sounds of some hardcore sex stuff through a door. Eventually though, he finds an empty bedroom, with a generic flowery kind of theme. He places Peepers on the bed, where he looks up at him with pupil-blown eyes. He tries his best to not look at the desire in them. Not the time or place. 

"I'm going to get you some water. Stay here." he says, adding after a moment of contemplation. "Unless you need to throw up. Then find a bathroom." 

"Sir, yes sir." he says with a crooked salute before flopping back down in a flurry of drunken giggles. 

Hater hurries to the kitchen, filling a plastic cup up with water as quickly as possible. It was his fault Peepers was like this, he left him alone when he said he wouldn't. But he didn't have time for a pity party now, he needed to take care of him. 

He nearly drops the cup when the first fireworks of the night go off, echoed by cheers from the party. He doesn't, but takes the last few strides a bit slower, just in case. 

Peepers isn't in the room when he gets there, but he can hear retching through an attached door, still slightly agar. When he opens it he finds a bathroom, and his boyfriend hunched over the toilet. 

"Hey cariño." he says gently, rubbing his back. "How you feeling?" 

"Ughhh." he groans, pressing his cheek against the seat. "Icky." 

"Yea, that's what I thought. But it'll be over soon, ok?" he says, moving the hand up to his hair, smoothing back the sweat-plastered strands. 

"Blehh." he breathes, closing his eyes, as if that would change anything. 

Hater continues to rub his back, holds back his bangs when he throws up again. He hums something that's hopefully soothing, lullaby-like. When Peepers seems to have exhausted his stomach contents he gives him the water, encouraging him to take little sips. Once the whole cup is gone, a several minute process, he picks him up, flushes the toilet and walks back into the bedroom. 

He's just putting him back down on the bed when a bang rebounds through the room, causing fingers to grip tightly in his shirt. Hater's surprised too, before he remembers. 

"It's just fireworks." he says calmly, but when he sees Peepers' face, **just** doesn't seem like a fair analysis. He's terrified, tears already starting to pool in his eye. 

"I'm sorry. Please don't leave." he begs, voice shaking like a violin string. 

"I won't." he promises, holding back tears of his own. God he was no good at this. He wasn't good enough for him. But this wasn't about him, not now. Right now, Peepers needed someone to be there. All there. So he would. 

Hater holds him as close as he can, shielding him with his body, but it's really no use. 

He tries in vain to forget what his screams sound like. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i'm sick, i'm tired, i'm dying inside, but i probably passed my calc test so who cares?! yea. TIL is one of my fav things in the world but this semester is kicking my butt so it's just been hard. sorry.


	28. Acupuncture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: continued mental fuckery, (past) minor character death, mentions of religion

When Peepers returns to reality, his mouth tastes like bile and blood. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, feels the four oozing teethmarks on it. Not that bad, really. He swallows hard, even though his stomach doesn't appreciate it. 

His eye wanders up, past the band t-shirt, to the man that's holding him. He's a wreck: eyes red-rimmed, all covered in snot, his arms still shaking around him. 

"Hater?" he croaks, throat raw from screaming. He jolts a little, looks down. 

"Oh. Hey. You're back." he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve, smiling a stain-glass smile, fragile. 

"You ok?" 

"I should be the one asking that." he says. It isn't an answer. "Are you?" 

"No. Sorry." he says, truthfully. Peepers doesn't have enough energy to lie. 

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." he says, a weird mix of steely and kind. Like he wanted to be mad but couldn't.

"You don't know that." he whispers, not able to manage anything louder. "You don't know what happened." 

"No, but whatever it was, you couldn't have stopped it. You..." he pauses for a second, considering. "You couldn't have saved him. The kid." 

"How did you? Oh never mind." he says, sighing. "I suppose you'd have found out someday."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" 

"What's the point? He's gone." he says, resigned. In these moments, when the world in dark and his mind is rubbed raw, he doesn't much feel like making progress. The twilight owns him, body and soul. 

"Not for you." he says, simple and true and sad. "I know you're getting better. I know it takes time. And I'm not expecting this to go away just because I'm here. But I want you to understand that it wasn't your fault." he says, too gentle, fingers running through his hair like a lifeline. Peepers doesn't deserve this. Hater would see that, if he knew what really happened. He shouldn't keep lying to him, letting him believe something that wasn't true. 

"It **was** my fault." he says, words like little razor blades. "I should've sent him home the day I found out. But I thought I could help him." he says, the memories pushing against the locked box he tries to keep them in. Peepers digs his nails into his arms, hoping the pain will keep them away. He can't do this. He can't keep remembering. He can't -

Fingers gently pry them off, warm palms pressing against the marks.

"Tell me." Hater says, with so much love and care in his voice it defies reason. Defies the internal base of self-loathing the rest of him sits on. Makes him doubt the truth of it, just for a second. 

So he does. 

* * *

"I've always been reasonable about death. I don't know why. Grief didn't hurt me like everyone else. The emotions were still there: the sadness and hurt. It just didn't stick." 

"I didn't really notice how different I was until Opa died. He was the first big loss in our family. There were distant relatives, but I wasn't supposed to be sad about them. Opa though, I knew him. He was a big part of my life."

"They expected me, all the kids really, to be devastated. Amy and Amanda certainly were. But I wasn't. I cried at his funeral, and the next Christmas felt a little emptier, but I didn't have trouble accepting it. I didn't doubt he was gone, or try to bargain for him. He was dead. Dead people don't come back." 

Peepers stops talking then, tightening his shoulders defensively, realizing the offensiveness of his words too late. 

"Sorry. I guess that was pretty rude, you being Catholic and all." He remembered their vague discussion of religion before Christmas, not getting much further than asking if Hater celebrated the holiday or something else. He said he did, though he hadn't a traditional Catholic one since grad school. You needed religion, he'd joked, to get through that Hell. 

"Not a very good one." he says simply. "Haven't been to a church in years. Besides, faith's a personal thing. We don't have to agree. Coming back from the dead is pretty out there." 

"I suppose so." he concedes, and continues. 

"It didn't change when I joined the Marines. Soldiers were killed, sometimes soldiers I was close to. I remember there was one I ate lunch with in training. Cindy, I think it was. She had blonde hair, a gap in her teeth, and an unbeatable score at the gun range." he muses, with a small smile. It quickly fades. 

"She stepped on a mine in 2004. It was bad. There wasn't even enough of her left to send home to the parents." he says, his voice somber and sad, but not pained. "It's strange. It's been years since I thought about her." he says, feeling guilty. 

"That's ok. She probably wouldn't want you to be hung up about it." 

"No, she wouldn't." Peepers agrees, but the guilt doesn't quite go away. He pushes on, not wanting to remember any more names. 

"Still, when I was given command of my own men, I was tough. Sometimes soldiers die, but too often it was the fault of their training. I never wanted that to be a possibility. At first, I had some with experience. A year or two in Iraq. You could tell since they'd stopped trying to scrub the dirt out of their uniforms."

"I was too good at my job. I trained them so well they all got scattered, plucked by elite teams. Some got cushy desk jobs. Some got killed and buried under a name that was not their own. Even for them, my mourning was stilted. They made a choice, and the consequences were on them." he says, with that same painless sadness. 

"In 2010, I was put in charge of a base in a strategically located town and roughly two-hundred new recruits. I remember spending the first week learning all their names to faces, first and last. There's something about hearing your full name that put even the cheekiest men to order." Peepers says fondly. 

"They were woefully incompetent for longer than I care to admit. It didn't help that nothing much happened on the base. There wasn't as much to do, now that the war was ending. Troops were being sent home. We were likely to be, soon enough. Even I couldn't justify being quite as tough as I used to be. Instead I tried my damnedest to make sure they'd be starting out prepared for the next conflict. Boot camp, stage two." he says, holding up a V for a moment. Peace and victory, strangely linked. 

"Then there was Zvezda." he says, tone dipping like it had been weighed down with lead. "Westley Zvezda. He came later, a year in. He was young, like most of them were, but it showed more in him. He looked a child, holding his weapon. Every uniform seemed to be too big for him, no matter how small. He was clumsy, but earnest. Far too earnest. All he wanted was my approval, never mind how." 

"Zvezda - Westley - was impossible to fix. He just wasn't meant to be a soldier. I knew that the moment I saw him. You don't have to be heartless, the best soldiers aren't, but he had too much. Alas, that was no reason to send him home. I could have made one up, but it didn't seem fair. He was a trusting boy, Westley. He thought my decisions were infallible. Perhaps it was vanity then, that kept me so hesitant. I'm not sure." Peepers admits, and the cost of honesty makes his chest hurt. 

"In any case, I found a reason soon enough. There was a discrepancy between his tax paperwork and his application of two years. He was only seventeen when he joined. A liar." he says, just as he had in the graveyard.

"At first, I thought it was just an error. That happened all the time, in haste, dates were misprinted. Westley wasn't the brightest bulb, either. It was only after looking deeper that I realized why he had lied. Westley didn't have an emergency contact. He didn't have a permanent address. Under guardian, there were three words. Ward of State. It made sense in the worst way." he says, shuddering. 

"He was untrained, barely educated. He seemed surprised whenever anyone did anything kind. I never heard him complain when I was tough on him. He was used to that, or worse. Westley was idealistic too, believed the reasons for the war were good ones. We knew it wasn't so simple or riteous as all that. I didn't particularly care, either." Peepers says, shame soaking his words. Hater holds him a little tighter. 

"I had a decision to make. To send him back or to pretend not to have known. There wasn't much in favor of the former, procedure mostly. He was eighteen then, after all. Unless I made a note of it, he could just join another branch of the military. A far more dangerous one. If I did punish him for his transgression, barred him from re-entry, it could do far worse things. Government assistance wouldn't be fond of a dismissal, nor would any employers. In keeping him safe, I could ruin that kid's life."

"On the other hand, I could say nothing. The war was ending. We couldn't be there much longer, a year or two at most. If I kept him safe, he'd walk out not a hero, but a good soldier. That would give him something to stand on. The choice seemed obvious. I changed the date on his tax form, sent a note chiding him for his 'mistake' and that was it." he says, and shakes his head. "Well, I wish it was." 

"I had to make sure Westley never got chosen for the few missions I assigned. I gave autonomy on group creation, they knew the intricacies of their social world far better than I did. He was too likable, useless but charming. So I placed him in administrative handcuffs. Punished him harshly for the smallest of mistakes, made  his duties long and tedious. The rest thought I had a grudge against the boy, but I didn't. Not like they thought, anyhow."

"It worked. For over two years, that wide-eyed kid didn't receive more than a scrape, and the end was near. Everything and everyone was being packed up, sent in batches. I could have left with the first, put someone else in charge, but well...I didn't really want to go back to the States. I hadn't planned on making it to retirement." he says, with an easy self-destructiveness that scares Hater. It was one thing to know, to see the signs of, but something about hearing it was the worst. It wasn't an unconscious thing, wasn't a consequence of trauma. Peepers held little value in his existence for **years**.

"I'm glad you made it." he says, but it doesn't seem like enough, this time. 

"Thanks." he says, not quite real. "I can't...I can't quite say what really happened, the day he died. It's just too much. Sorry." he says, the memories still lurking, barely sated sharks swimming in his cerebellum. 

"It's ok. This is enough. Whatever you can manage." 

"The facts. I can give you those. I was working on tax forms when I was informed of a protestor at the gates. That happened sometimes, and I thought if I let them give me their piece, they'd go away. Force would have been awkward. He had a bomb, C-4. I didn't notice, but Westley did. He pushed the guards and myself to safety, and was killed doing so. I took a piece of shrapnel to my right eye and didn't wake up until after the surgery. I watched his funeral from the hospital." he says, and curls his hands into fists, pressing them against his thighs hard enough to bruise. 

"So you see, the blame is deserved. If I hadn't been so arrogant, if I had taken more care, at the very least it would be **me** in that plot, a good gold star. Not a hero, not a martyr. It should have been me." 

"Don't say that!" Hater snaps, unable to idly listen and offer platitudes anymore. He wasn't a therapist, he had his limits, and hearing his boyfriend, the man he loved so much, saying he should be dead? It was his. "I don't want Westley to be dead either, but he is. It doesn't do him any favors for you to want to take his place." he says, holding him like he's scared he'll turn to sand and fall through his fingers. 

"I can't say I know what that's like, I can't tell you how to feel about it. But I do know that you matter. I know you're **important** , just for being here. You're smart and tough and funny and make me so fucking happy! I just want you to be happy too." he confesses, his tears unannounced H-bombs. 

"I am!" he says quickly, hands cupping his face, fingers halting tear tracks before they can impact. "I am happy! I feel the best I've felt in years when I'm with you. At work or at home, you make me feel I'm actually worth something. That I really do matter." he assures him, eyes so close to his he could see the little gold flecks in the brown. 

"But you can't fix me. I'm not even sure **I** can, completely. The attack...it happened nine months ago. It hasn't even been a year. Physically, I've recovered, but mental wounds take time. I know it's not fair, that it might be too much to ask, but I need you. I need you to keep telling me obvious things because my brain won't believe it on its own. Things like 'you're important' and 'you're not supposed to be dead,' and 'I love you.'" 

"It's **not** too much to ask. That's easy. It's true." he says, some relief returning to him. In the worst times, perspective was tough. The lip of the future seemed impossibly high. But it would come. He would get better, start believing things that Hater saw daily in him. Now was just a bad day, a storm. They could weather it. 

"It's not normal. I don't...I'm not...good enough."

"Don't be stupid. You're wonderful. Not perfect, but no one is. Certainly not me." 

"Better than -" 

"I'm not even going to let you finish that." he interrupts. "I mean, I left you alone when I said I wouldn't. I had a reason but it was still shitty." 

"What was it?" he asks, natural curiosity peeking through the cracks of despair. Hater smiles. 

"I'll tell you later. For now let's just agree we're both messes. You win this round." he jokes, and Peepers finds just enough energy to play along.

"Do I get a medal?" 

"I'll think about it." Hater says, a twinkle in his eyes. He slowly gets up, stretching out his sore limbs. "I think we better head home. I'm all partied out." he says, and Peepers snorts. 

"On that we can agree." he says, a yawn escaping his throat. He's just about to try and right himself when Hater gathers him in his arms, bridal style. 

"Show off." Peepers chides, but there isn't anything in it. He curls against his chest and listens to the drum beat of his heart, the-thump, the-thump. 

He's just on the edge of sleep when lips press against his forehead and a whisper echoes through his wispy conscious. 

"Happy New Year, mi amor. We gonna be fine." 

For a moment, he almost believes him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not quite satisfied with this chapter but i couldn't justify editing it anymore lmao


	29. How Did It End Up Like This?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: fade-to black sexytimes at the very end
> 
> also there's a lot of astronomical terms/allusions b/c i am a nerd, so i put a glossary of sorts in the end notes if you're curious. you don't need it to understand the plot tho

Things are a little bit awkward between him and Hater, after the party. Peepers spends the first full day after in a NyQuil induced slumber, avoiding the hangover, but even after the headache fades, the night lingers. 

Hater isn't distant or mean, far from it. He spends even more time with him than before, just hanging out. But the silence isn't nice anymore, it feels weird. Sometimes he asks if he's ok out of the blue. His kisses drop off like the end of a population curve. 

Yet Peepers can't really blame him. There's no right way to react to hearing that kind of news. Hater's certainly handling it better than he has. He's treating him more like a human than some of his early doctors, with their whispers and pitying glances. He doesn't act like he's broken, just...fragile. Which could be nice, because sometimes he is. But mostly he's just like everyone else, dealing with life day by day. 

There's something else too. Something about why he left him alone in the first place. He obviously feels guilty, and Peepers isn't sure if he's supposed to forgive him or not. It would depend, he thinks, on what the reason was. But what if asking about it made things worse? He can't handle that, can't handle losing him. That's probably bad, overly dependent, but Wander's on vacation like everyone else and halfway across the country at that, so he'll work that out later. 

Peepers hopes that the job will help, that the structure will make things feel less suffocating. Even so, he spends far too long staring at the ceiling the night before, worry clawing at his chest. 

* * *

Wong had sent an email telling them about the meeting a few days ago, but the knowledge doesn't make it any more enjoyable. Especially not for Hater, who is not nearly awake enough to deal with this. 

He sips at his coffee between glances at the analog clock on the wall, a vein starting to pop out of his forehead. Who the fuck was late for their **own** meeting?  Sure, not everyone was here yet, but that wasn't his fault. He fumes silently, fingers tapping impatiently on the table. Their rhythm stops when Peepers shows up, cheeks flushed and one side of his collar askew. 

The man looks around the room, chest heaving quick up-downs, and eventually makes his way to the empty seat at Hater's side. (No one else was brave enough to sit next to him in his early morning state.) 

"Good morning." he says as he sits, with a formal politeness that they'd stopped using months ago. But things were different now, in his mind. It hurts, but he's right. He fucked up. 

"It certainly is morning." he replies, because he's selfish, unable to get past his own lousy mood and be better about this. 

For a moment, Peepers looks like he might smile at the remark, but it doesn't quite make it. Instead he smoothes down his collar and tugs the hem of his shirt. 

"I didn't get the email until this morning. Well I did, but it ended up in my spam folder somehow. It was only when I checked it on my phone that I noticed. I had to run to get to the building in time." he explains, looking a bit embarrassed. 

"I **wish** emails from Wong ended up in my spam folder." Hater deadpans. This does get him a smile, though it only lasts a second, since the man himself comes barreling in. 

"Good morning, everyone!" he says as he saunters to the front of the room, way too cheery for this early in the day. A weak chorus of the same greeting follows him. He's dressed more formally than usual, wearing a grey suit with an indigo tie, and holding a briefcase.

"Now I know you're all still worn out from all that awesome New Year's partying," Both Hater and Peepers stiffen in their seats. "But I have something you're all going to love!" he announces, and produces a textbook thick pile of papers from said briefcase. 

"Ta-da! That's right, the newest batch of Kepler data is in!" Excited murmurs permeate the room at the information. Hater rolls his eyes. He loves Kepler as much as the next astrophysicist, but it wasn't surprising they got data from it. The satellite's whole **job** was to look for exoplanets. 

Wong had clearly been anticipating this response though, and was soaking in his few moments of adoration. 

"Now, as a special treat to my favorite underlings, me and some of the boys from SETI came in early and uploaded the data onto your computers. So it's time to get cracking! New worlds to discover, new possibilities for life! If any of it talks back, you come straight to me, got it?" he quips, earning a chuckle from some of the younger guys. 

"Ok, as for the boring stuff: remember, reports are due by five, and the observatory schedule will be up later this week. I'll send an update if the weather gets in the way. Fingers crossed." he says, a relatable feeling. Earth's atmosphere was really annoying for astronomers, but space stuff was expensive. It was a struggle.

"This concludes the meeting, y'all! Let's make this new year a great one!" he concludes, and earns far more cheers than  Hater would have anticipated. Even Peepers was clapping, golf-style. He had to hand it to the guy, he knew how to give a speech. 

Wong is a little bit too good at it, as it happened. The words rouse his normally complacent employees to action, and within a minute the room was void, save two. The awkwardness of the past week stretches like a moat between them, and they stare at each other, unsure whether they were supposed to do something. Hater has had enough of it. 

"I bet I can find something more interesting than you by the end of the day." he dares, much like he first had in early November, when the routine was starting to make the work days last an eon. 

"At what stakes?" Peepers says, looking casually interested. Hater knows better. He's weighing all the benefits and costs of accepting this proposition. This is a big factor. 

"If I win, as I obviously will, I get a kiss." he says, as he'd been sorely feeling the lack of them. Deserved assuredly, after his mistake, but nevertheless painful. 

"Mhm." he hums, considering. "And if I win?" 

"I'll clean out my van." he says, the perfect incentive. Peepers attempted to be subtle in his observations of the van's disorder, but the horror was painted obviously onto his every feature. 

"All of it? Even the back?" Hater tended to use it as a secondary storage room, or perhaps more aptly, as a trash can. 

"Anything that can be picked up. I'm not vacuuming." he says, a solid ultimatum. He kept his apartment presentable on 'responsible adult' principle, and because Peepers tended to twitch when it got particularly collegiate. But the van was his space, in all its messy glory. 

"Deal." Peepers says, shaking his hand quickly and rushing for the door. Why waste time? 

The race was on. 

* * *

After seven and a half hours, Peepers presses the send button on his report with a long, semi-dramatic sigh. He'd tried, he really had, but he hadn't found much. The spectra didn't speak to him as usual, recognition of patterns came slow. Even working through lunch hadn't helped. It's enough for Wong, of course, but probably not enough to win against Hater. Oh well. 

He stands gingerly on the edge of his chair, locking the wheels so he won't slide off, and pokes his head into Hater's cubicle. 

"You finished?" he asks, resting his arms on the partition. 

"Almost." he says, not looking up from his computer screen. The pick-a-peck movement of his fingers across the keyboard is somehow efficient, if completely disordered. Watching Hater work always incited in him a mix of awe and complete fury. He was so used to order: natural and man-made, and Hater kept himself above both. Truly an incredible task. 

A few minutes and a triumphant punch of the enter key later, a grinning face peers up at him, already smug. 

"Whatcha' got?" he asks, and Peepers lets out another sigh. 

"Let's just get this over with." he grumbles, reaching down for a printout of his findings. Hater was a notorious braggart, and his own competitive streak loathed the reminder that he'd lost. 

"I've got two hot Jupiters and a possible terrestrial. The period's too long to confirm with just the latest data." This was exceptional for a day's work, but nothing compared to the wired tandem they used to have, playing off each other, covering professional weaknesses. Not to mention Hater's strange brand of cosmic luck, finding objects that were just right to use gravitational microlensing. Peepers was doomed. 

"Not bad, not bad." the physicist concedes, but it's obvious from his tone he's just setting up his own fantastic find. He vaguely wonders what it will be. A rocky inner planet with a promising atmosphere? A 'Tatooine' not stuck in Mercurial hell? Maybe even a brown dwarf, miraculously spotted among a field of L and T stars! All possible, if unlikely. 

"I've got an eclipsing binary system." he declares after significant pause, and all traces of jealousy blow off of Peepers like the envelope of a dying red giant. 

"No way!" he says, usual professionalism out the window. The grin somehow grows wider. 

"Way. **And** if you get some Hipparcos data, which a colleague of mine at ESA was totally prepared to send, there's precise enough measurements to find their masses without even knowing the distance. Want to check my math?" he says, winking.

"I know you're making fun of me, but that is unbelievably hot." he says, usual filter smashed to pieces. This was beyond astronomically rare. This was quantum. 

Hater's easy posturing fell like a Celtic wall to Vikings, grin morphing to an embarrassed smile, and though the blush on his cheeks doesn't show pink, it's obviously there. As a final cherry on top, his croaks out a 'yea?' so flustered there's only one reaction worth having. 

Peepers laughs. He laughs like only Hater can get him to, no awkward croaking, no hints of self-deprecation. It's long and loud  and causes nearly the whole office to stare, but he can't find it in himself to care. 

"Sorry, I -" he says, looking down at the desk, the embarrassment settling in. "I never get to make you flustered. You're always too cool." he says, thinking of his easy flirting, the way his nervousness rarely peeks out. Unlike Peepers, who wears his inexperience and awkwardness on his sleeve. 

"I'm...cool?" he replies, slow and confused, which doesn't make any sense. 

"Of course you are! 'Greatest rock star ever,' remember?" he quotes, from way back when. 

"I don't want to." Hater blurts out, a little too fast. He says the next words purposefully slow. "I don't want to be a rock star anymore." he admits, a whisper. 

"Why not?" Peepers asks, baffled. He looks at his partner, more nerves than he's seen since their first date, strung tight as a guitar. This pause isn't planned, goes on too long to be. It's filled with thoughts of how and what to say. 

"Because I'm happy." he settles on, looking up at him with an honesty that's chilling. "Not always, but in general. The world doesn't make me mad anymore. I like my life. I'm happy." he says, with a foreign perplexity Peepers understands completely. Recovery was always shocking, when noticed.

"I've done a lot of stuff. Wonderful, fascinating stuff. I've been all over the world, made friends with brilliant people. But I'd never been **really** happy. Until I came here. Until I met you." Hater says, scared, but honest. 

"M-Me? How am I special?" he asks, not out of disbelief, but his brain always required a reason, an explanation. 

"I don't know. You just are." he says, unhelpfully. "There's all these things I like about you, too many to say, but it's all just **you**. Calvin "Peepers" Johnson. The love of my life." 

Peepers was speechless. What on Earth could he even say to that? Hater might be the love of his life too, but how could he tell? How could he know, the way Hater did? Without anything solid to stand on? It was illogical, preposterous, it was...it was...

Love. Real, asymptotic, poetic. Impossible to quantify. All the things people said but didn't really mean, but he **did**. Peepers knew that, could see it as plain as anything. He remembered what his father had said, that he looked at Hater like the stars. He remembered all the things he would never have done if he weren't there: come out to his family, talk about his past, put flowers on strangers' graves. 

"You don't have to -" 

"I love you too." he says, and it's different from every other time he's said it, because the whole truth of it is known to him. 

They stare at each other, but it isn't awkward at all. They know. 

"You owe me a kiss." 

"You could have just asked, you idiot." he says, and there's something like possession in the insult. 

For even geniuses are fools in love. 

* * *

That night, the lack of kisses is paid back the moment the door closes. It's eager  and rushed, even though they know now they've got all the time in the world to enjoy each other. Ties and jackets lie in crumpled heaps on the floor, hands struggle to find their place, and even breaking for air seems an eternity too long.  It does, at least, allow Peepers to give a feverish command. 

"Don't stop." he says, fingers curling into Hater's short hair, keeping him close. Their breaths feed into each other, short, shallow. "Don't you dare stop or I will fucking shoot you." 

"Kinky." he teases, but obeys. 

From door to bedroom more articles of clothing are lost, like shoes, belts, and a slightly torn dress shirt. (Peepers apologizes later, blushing furiously, and Hater just has to kiss him for it. A lot.) 

For tonight though, the moment is met unblushed. Fumbling, nervous, and inexperienced certainly, but there was nothing to be ashamed of. While neither quite believed in predestination, now that they had met, love seemed inevitable and beautiful, and their last thoughts before sated sleep were exactly the same. 

_What did I do to deserve him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might be the sappiest shit i've ever written and I love it
> 
> Astronomy Glossary:
> 
> Kepler: A space observatory launched by NASA in 2007 to search for exoplanets. Based on public announcements, the sets of data given to Peepers and Hater comes from a range of about five months. That's also why they weren't specifically using Kepler data in earlier chapters.
> 
> Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence (SETI): SETI refers generally to any search for non-Earth intelligence, but Mano Wong was part of UC Berkley's SERENDIP (Search for Extraterrestrial Radio Emissions from Nearby Developed Intelligent Populations) project, and still has many friends from it. 
> 
> Gravitational Microlensing: A method used to find exoplanets based on the planet 'bending' light from a distant star. It is hard to execute but yields great scientific return. Yes, I did use this for metaphorical purposes, as well as to tie into Hater's previous work with gravitational anomalies. 
> 
> Hot Jupiters: Fairly common exoplanets that are similar in mass and composition to Jupiter, but orbit far closer to their sun. The existence of these has led to the modification of the nebular theory of solar system formation. 
> 
> Period: How long it takes an object in orbit to make one complete loop. Ex. Earth's period is one year. 
> 
> 'Tatooine': A slang term I made up for an exoplanet orbiting in a binary star system. All aspiring astrophysicists are free to use it. 
> 
> Brown Dwarf: A 'failed' star, unable to get hot enough to fuse hydrogen into helium. Very hard to spot as they aren't producing light.
> 
> L and T stars: The coolest 'stars' that we know about, though they are probably not stars at all. The first was discovered in 1999. Their letters come from the Harvard classification system of stars. 
> 
> Eclipsing binary: Two stars in a binary system angled in such a way that from the angle of Earth, one eclipses the other. These are very rare and useful, as Hater mentions, with precise enough measurements one doesn't have to know the distance to find out the masses of the stars. This is important as distance to stars is really hard to find out for various reasons. 
> 
> Hipparcos: A space satellite launched by the European Space Agency (ESA) in 1989 to measure the precise positions of stars.


	30. Saints and Sinners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd recommend reading light up a spark before this chapter, but it isn't necessary to understand any of the plot
> 
> warnings: alcohol, sexual themes, mild consent issues, mental fuckery, implied self-harm 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Over the next several weeks the employees of NASA's exoplanet division were witness to a truly bizarre stage in the Hater/Peepers relationship; (which had lovingly been dubbed Death Glare by one of the interns.) 

The two had been at least partially married from Day 1, which was normal enough. Peepers was a worrier, and Hater demanded worrying. A brilliant man, certainly, but he would lose his own head if it weren't attached to his neck. 

Then came the pining. Painful, obvious, and a little bit gross in the way romance always is, even when you're all grown up. No one was brave enough to speed it up, but **God** were they grateful when news of the date came. 

Awkwardness followed, all the uncertainty and joy of a new relationship. Limits were made, tested, and settled upon. There was an air of disbelief that came when a crush led to something.

Sometime in the winter break, it melted into complete adoration that could be seen immediately. English didn't have a good word for it, but a Norwegian engineer dropping off equipment called it 'forelsket.' The euphoria of falling in love. For the moment it remained unspoken, a secret not yet ready for two. Until it was. 

That led them to now, in this stage no one could find a name for. All the others, they were standard, like a checklist of tropes. This wasn't. The closest thing the employees could think of was honeymoon, but that wasn't quite right. The love didn't blind them to each other's faults, they still bickered over both science and personal differences, and Peepers' modesty forbid anything other than kisses in the professional setting. But just because things weren't happening here didn't mean they weren't happening, especially if the sudden increase in neckwear and high collared shirts was for the reasons everyone thought. 

There was still a disgusting amount of fluff between them though. Instead of just thinking all the sap in their heads, it was spoken, and the blushes were almost worse than way back when they started. Their general moods were sunnier, making early morning Hater actually approachable and Peepers at any time survivable, provided they were in company. 

A smirking mathematician in the break room said that the stick up Peepers' ass had been replaced by something else, earning snickers from the more immature company until Wong told them to shut up and get back to work. 

That was the other weird thing, Wong's attitude change. Before he'd been happy to gossip and make crude jokes of his own, though always at a certain distance, being their boss and all. Now he was grouchy and irritable, rarely interacting outside of his professional duties, and locking himself up in his office all day. 

There was a certain amount of relief at that, Wong could be overbearing and annoying, but there was concern too. He was a good guy, a good scientist, and whatever was going on in his personal life, his employees all hoped it worked out. It had to be personal, they reasoned, because nothing had really changed around here. Nothing Wong would care about, anyway. 

Funny, how some of the smartest people on the planet could be so wrong.

* * *

 

Time had never felt more strange for Peepers than the first two months of that year. For so long he had thought of time in units. One task was to be done in this interval, another in the interval following. It wasn't a perfect system, but it suited him and his needs. 

Hater didn't live like that at all. His foresight was so terrible as to be legally blind. Deadlines were mere smudges in the horizon of the future, contemplation of which was foggy at best. He was efficient, in that strange, infuriating, pickapeck way, but he lived solidly in the present, and dragged Peepers back with him. 

Some of it was nice. Anxieties were harder to foster in his mindset, and there was more room for chance. Peepers had never thought surprises could be good before, but Hater always caught him off guard with flowers and kisses at just the right moment. 

Still, it had to stop somewhere, and Peepers had drawn the line in the sand with Valentine's Day. Hater's spontaneity with dates was often refreshing, but he could go overboard. (The carnival, for instance, had been a royal disaster.) Besides, control was important to him, and Hater knew that. 

They compromised, as they had with the calendar, with sharing meals, with the proper order of shows on the television. With how high the marks could be on Peepers' neck, and how loud they could be before it was, frankly, rude. 

It was a simple enough plan. A night in, just the two of them. Some wine, a good meal - Hater could actually contribute a little now that he was learning to cook properly - maybe something new in the bedroom, if they had the energy. Peepers didn't pretend to know much about sex, but he had a gut feeling Hater would like how he looked in lace. 

~~~

Valentine's Day, as if sensing he's actually happy for once and not liking it one bit, starts out miserably for Peepers. The traffic is more atrocious than usual, so he almost misses his exit. He doesn't, but all the handicapped spots are filled, so he's stuck on the edge of public parking. Which sucks, but it's not like the walk will hurt him. The unapologetic stares of the tourists might get **them** hurt though, if they don't stop soon. Kids, he can understand, they don't know better. They'd probably say something silly but amusing, like ask if he was a space pirate. Adults though, their looks were pity and judgement and speculation they weren't entitled to. Eventually, he can't take it anymore.

"What, never seen a scientist before?" he spits, with the New England sneer no amount of years could quite get rid of. The tourists scramble, and he storms towards the building. He firmly ignores the tightness in his chest.

~~~

Peepers knows his own mind well enough to expect his efficiency to take a dive, a consequence of Friday more than the holiday on it. So he's content to take an easy day, run some data, straighten the paper hearts someone taped to the edge of his cubicle. But no, he doesn't even get that much, because his computer's gone freaky. 

It starts up around noon, the cursor moving at a snail's pace no matter how hard he shakes it. He bangs the edge of the screen twice, which usually works, if only for catharsis. When that fails, he makes Hater come over and fiddle with it. He's far better with computers, especially since the last one Peepers worked on at any length was from 2004. But even he comes back stumped, says that it's probably a hardware problem. 

His work is safe enough, since he backs everything up on a NASA server, but the computer problems are another scoop on his shitty-day sundae. The cherry on top, as it were, is that he has to tell Wong what's going on. In person, since his computer's busted. 

Peepers takes a deep breath before marching over to his superior's office, but his frustration still lingers at the surface, the dying coals of a fire. It distracts him so much that he doesn't notice how long it takes Wong to answer his knock, how the syllables of his 'come in' are pressed too close.

* * *

Attraction had always come easily to Mano Wong. He was good looking, pansexual, and didn't bother denying himself what he wanted. So it wasn't a shock when he developed feelings for the new chromatographer, Peepers Johnson. He was hot, brilliant, and had an allure of mystery well beyond the missing eye. 

It could have been a real romp, under different circumstances. The guy had a hard shell that would have been fun to crack open. There was fury past the formality and professionalism, he caught glimpses of it through the cracks, and man it was **hot**. The things he could do to Mano in bed with that anger, well. He thought about it often. 

Alas, Peepers was off-limits. He worked with him, for him technically, and the paperwork involved was a nightmare. The guy was hot, but no amount of filthy hate sex was worth dealing with executive bureaucracy. He'd learnt his lesson with Seth with the green hair. Never again.

If only it had been that simple. 

You see, Mano started noticing things about Peepers. The doctor's notes were for a trauma therapist in the city, and there were dark bags under his eye. He looked like a walking paradox, neat and tidy, yet only a misplaced step away from falling apart. There was an edge of sorrow across his soul, and part of Mano ached to fix it. 

In strange contrast to the inner warzone, Peepers was almost painfully innocent and oblivious about sex. Mano's flirting - hey there was no rule against that - usually went completely over his head. When it did land, his reaction was disbelieving and flustered, like a teenage girl. It was cute. 

Lots of things about Peepers were cute, come to think. The way his brow furrowed in concentration over his work, the joy when the shitty break room coffee machine coughed out a sludge of pure caffeine. The strand that curled traitorously out of his hair when he was onto something, disorder forgiven for the greater good. 

It wasn't until the honorable Dr. Martinez, aka Hater, came along that he realized he'd fallen in love with Peepers Johnson. He'd fallen so far that he couldn't even be mad at how Peepers looked at Hater, like he was a star on Earth. So far he played matchmaker and didn't let himself feel miserable. Well, most of the time, at least. 

But the thing about bottling up your feelings is that one day, they're going to explode. For Mano, that day was the fourteenth of February. The day when he looked across the garishly decorated office, saw the flirty young interns and the married employees alike in a haze of affection, and realized he hadn't been with someone who actually gave a shit about him for a long time. 

So he did when any self-respecting scientist would do. Mano locked the door to his office and got shit faced on the bottle of quality bourbon he had been saving for a great discovery. It didn't matter now. Not if that was all he was going to have as a legacy, hunks of rock and gas millions of miles away. That he was going to die alone and hated by most of his peers. 

Usually he didn't give a crap what they thought, he was a modern Tycho, eccentric but important. Kepler couldn't have done jack-shit without Tycho's observations, and neither could the boys back at Berkeley without Mano's. It was tedious, yes, and unrelenting, but he found peace in looking for patterns. In the calm of the sky of ancient wonders.

But despite the name, he was still human. He still wanted to be loved, to have someone to go home to after the long nights. He wanted to talk to without having to think, because they knew him well enough to fill in the gaps. Peepers could have been that person, he thinks, if only. 

If only he wasn't his boss. If only he was able to make him understand he was serious. If only he had asked sooner. If only he had thought he was worth it. 

If only Hater had never shown up.

* * *

The first thing Peepers notices upon opening the door the Wong's office is the silence. It takes a moment to pinpoint the source, or lack thereof. The fluorescents are off, their familiar buzz gone. The lack of it fills the room more than the darkness itself. 

"Wong?" he says carefully, as if he had entered the lair of some horrible beast. "Are you in here?" 

"Present." he says, an outline of an arm raising behind the desk, and the t sound is a bullet: lead, harsh, poisonous. The hairs on the back of Peepers' neck stand up, but he doesn't pay them mind. Bad move. 

"My computer is broken, so I couldn't get anything done today. Hater says it's -" 

"Ah, of course! The great Doctor Martinez knows all!" he says, and it's weird to hear sarcasm in the voice of someone usually painfully genuine. 

"Well actually, sir, he doesn't. He thinks it's a hardware problem, though. I can share with him until mine gets fixed, but I need someone from IT to come down." he explains, as if pretending things are normal will make them so again. His hands are shaking, but he hasn't noticed yet. 

"Share with him like you're sharing a bed?" Wong asks, but it's not like his usual teasing, it rings of cruelty. He stands up, walks over to him. Peepers had never realized how much he towers over him before, how small he is in comparison. 

"Tell me Peeps," he says, and at this distance he can smell the alcohol on his breath. "Is he good at it? **Big** and **strong** and makes you melt into him? Or do you like taking him, making him beg for it, having **all** the control, huh?" Wong's smiling, the whiteness of his teeth in the cavernous black terrifying beyond reason. 

"This is hardly an a-appropriate line of questioning, sir." he says, hating the waver the smile elicits. 

"I could do it, you know. Be good for you. Do whatever you want, I've got experience." he continues with a weird calm, fingers tracing Peepers' cheeks, and he can't even flinch because he's frozen. 

The kiss is what shocks him out of it, all rough and hard and wrong, tasting of Cola and a too eager tongue. Peepers pushes him away, but it takes a moment, his neurons aren't fast enough to stop him right away. Wong just stands there, smile gone, and eventually sighs. 

"Fucking figures." he spits out, bitter and sad. Wong moves back a few steps, shoves his hands in his pockets. They stand there in the silence, the damn unnerving silence, until he speaks again. 

"What's so special about him?" he asks, with a desperate, wet edge. The little light from the high glass window glints off the tears pooling in his eyes. It's pitiful. "What's he got that I don't, huh?" 

"I love him." Peepers says, because he does deserve an answer, and walks out the door. It's fortunate that the door is thick enough he doesn't hear him breaking completely. 

~~~ 

Peepers cancels their plans for that night, and when Hater's expression goes from disappointment to concern within a second, he knows he made the right choice. He says he'll stay with Peepers if he needs him, no expectations or anything, but he declines. Needs some time alone, he says, which is true. 

Because something about the encounter with Wong reminds him of Johnny behind the bleachers, even though he'd been the one to push him away, and push a blade just above his belly button. Peepers feels the faded scar before adding three more onto his left arm. The worst feeling of the night is crossing out the double digit clean streak from his calendar. 

The next day, he goes to Hater's apartment with the medical tape unhidden. They watch Cosmos on Netflix and fall asleep together, curled up on the couch. Peepers feels safer when he wakes up, more secure. When Hater asks if he wants to talk about it, he shakes his head, but promises he will. Just not now. Hater isn't happy about the delay, but accepts it, and presses a kiss against his cheek. 

It's a day late and unremarkable, but it's the best Valentine's Day of Peepers' life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait everybody! finals kicked my butt, but i passed everything (i hope). have a happy holiday season and new year, and thank you so much for your continued support, it's been wonderful. no one has better readers than myself, that's for sure! <3


	31. Too Few To Mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: internalized homophobia, use of a homophobic slur (the f one), mental illness/recovery fuckery (x2), semi-graphic anxiety attack, mentions of violence
> 
> also references to last chapter's events, so those warnings kind of apply too

Peepers' anxiety has a field day as Monday morning approaches, digging into all the darkest corners of his imagination, pulling out his worst fears et la being a flaming homosexual. Ostracization, humiliation, acts of violence. Even the best case scenario is horrid: awkward avoidance of the unrequited love variety. He's never had to deal with that before. And there's practically nothing in the world he hates more than going into a potentially dangerous situation with no data. 

In retrospect, the actual reality is somewhat of a letdown. 

Peepers arrives at work as usual, weaves his way through gossiping coworkers - hearing snatches of Wong's name among the whispers - and keeps his gaze fixed on the floor to avoid seeing the inevitable disgust in their faces. He risks a look at his office, the wooden doors are shut tight, as they had been for the last month and a half. A sign he should have noticed.  

At his own cubicle, he finds an envelope taped to the monitor of his computer, or what will become his computer, since it's new. Recent too, considering the thinness of the screen and the smooth way it hums, no spluttering coughs or whines yet. The title is his nickname, which he's never seen in print before. Evenly spaced letters spell Peepers, all caps. Inside is a letter, written, not typed, on printer paper. He's impressed by how perfect the undrawn lines are. Wong had never struck him as ordered in that way. Then again, maybe he never knew much about his boss at all. 

Peepers starts reading. 

~~~~~~

_I'm sorry. I know that's not enough, but I had to start somewhere, and that was all I could think of. I won't make excuses. Yea, I was drunk, but alcohol doesn't make me  a different person. Just makes me stupider than usual. If you're wondering, I was, still kind of am, in love with you. It wasn't a good kind of love. Young, mostly pining. More of an idea than a feeling. I guess I just like making the same mistakes over and over._

_That being said, I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I don't deserve any sympathy, I fucked up. I hurt you, which is really the worst punishment. You can report me to HR if you like, though I doubt it will do much, since I already resigned. They want me back at Berkeley since the SERENDIP director retired. Have been since August, but I've been fending them off, making excuses. I'm pretty good at that._

_IT couldn't fix your computer, one of the drives fried, so I made arrangements for a new one to be set up. You might get a stink-eye from Cathy, since her requisition forms for a new computer have been stuck in limbo for eight months, but that's it. I made sure no one knew about what happened. Spread a rumor that my sudden leave was for a family emergency, and everyone seems happy to speculate on specifics._

_My temporary replacement is an engineer named Nathan from rocket design. You'll like him, he's organized. Knows nothing about exoplanets though, so don't rely on him to catch anything interesting. My advice? Check out Alpha Centauri again using Dr. Martinez's gravity well method. I've got a hunch we missed something the first time._

_I know now why you chose him, if that's worth anything. He's a good man, and I'm not. He cares about you more than anything, all of you, not just the parts that are easy to love. He dare not hurt you, not even by accident. It would tear him apart faster than an event horizon. That's good. You certainly deserve it. But thank goodness I'll be in California by the time he finds out, I like my teeth intact._

_I'm glad he makes you happy, in the end. You are one amazing person, Captain Calvin Johnson. You deserve the universe, and he's certainly prepared to give it to you. And hey, if you ever end up in San Francisco, and you don't utterly hate me, hit me up. I happen to know the best sushi restaurant in California. The sencha green's not bad either._

_See you in Hell,_

_Mano Wong_

~~~~

"Idiot." he breathes, practically automatic, as his brain connects meaning and memories to the words. A nasally laugh triggered by the worst kinds of jokes, utterly unprofessional dress, a smile so big it defied reason. But there was something that glinted in their perfect whiteness, something cruel. Cola, bitter and warm, pressing past his lips, the glint of light off tears, afternoon sunlight, shaking, confessing, **_bleed fag bleed!_**

Peepers shoves the letter into a drawer and slams it shut. The clang of the metal is loud in his ears, steadying. He takes a deep breath. In-out. He's safe here, no one is going to hurt him, he's ok. Everything's ok. 

Yea, right. This is such a bullshit way of dealing with things, like some air and flimsy reassurances was going to change anything. He doesn't even understand why it bothers him so much, it was only a kiss. Sure, it wasn't his choice, but there's so much worse things in the world, hell, in his own past! What's so special about this? About him? 

Why does it remind him so much of Johnny? 

It doesn't matter. He can deal with his own fucked up head later. Peepers needs a plan. Wong was kind enough to tie up most the loose ends, but he left a big one on him. Hater. Jesus Christ, how is he going to tell Hater about this? It's not exactly a casual topic of conversation. 'Have a nice Sunday? Get some good rest? Oh and by the way our boss kissed me the other day, just so you know.' 

Peepers has no idea how he'll react. Well, that's not entirely true. He knows it will be loud and angry. His heart jumps as he wonders if Hater will be mad at him. He did **let** himself get kissed by Wong. Not for long, but Hater could be possessive. It had never been a problem before, it was actually kind of endearing, but that could change. Life changes on a dime, he knew that firsthand. 

Focus. Thinking like that wasn't going to help anything. He had to find the right way to tell him, the right time. It had to be soon. Waiting could cause far more damage. Hater wouldn't trust him anymore, he'll **hate** him. Probably. Maybe. Possibly. Wasn't that enough? 

So, he has to tell him. Soon. Might as well be today then. Not in the office though, their coworkers talk enough as is. Lunch? Yea, lunch is good. Hater's always happier when there's food. It might make this a little easier. 

Worth a shot.

* * *

Peepers is hiding something important from him. The hiding is obvious, he's never been very good at it, and Hater's managed to get him to stop trying so much. That's a good thing, even though it's hard to look at him when he's low. It's better than not being sure how bad it is. It's better than being wrong. Hater never wants to get another call from the hospital he isn't expecting, asking his name or worse. Saying sorry, we tried, but it was too late. He wouldn't be able to handle it, not if he could've done something, helped. 

He doesn't expect Peepers to go cold-turkey on self-harm. Not when Hater couldn't last two days without punching someone at his worst. That doesn't stop him from trying to wean him off it. The calendar box helps, as does spending the night more often. He locked all of his razor blades under the sink after the first time, and feels lucky he doesn't cook enough to need real knives. 

Hater knows relapses happen, so the occasional bandaids on Peepers' arms only sting his conscience. Except Valentine's Day wasn't a relapse. Not the usual kind anyway. That's why he knows it's something important. Cancelling the plans he worked so hard to make in such a hurry is one thing, coming over the next day taped from wrist to elbow and barely speaking, that's something else. 

When he asked if he wanted to talk about it, Peepers didn't say no. He said 'I can't.' That's different, it's **wrong**. He at least says 'nightmare' or 'memory' when it's about Westley, the past. This is present, like after the hospital, and maybe that should make him feel better. That was a good kind of important secret, the kind he can fix with kisses. But it doesn't, because that means it might also be a secret about him. 

Maybe the secret is that he fucked this up. That the best thing that's ever happened to him, he's ruined it. Maybe the past repeats itself, because he doesn't know how to be the one helping someone get better and not the other way around. 

The text he gets from Peepers the Monday after clarifies nothing. 'Have lunch with me?' could just be a shared meal. Or it could be a chance to be alone when dropping the bombshell of a broken heart. The follow up doesn't raise his spirits much, the address of an Italian restaurant close to work. They've never had lunch out at work before, and Peepers doesn't break his perfect routine without reason. 

 _Well_ , he thinks numbly. _At least I'll have a nice last meal._

~~~~ 

It is a nice restaurant, he'll give Peepers that. A squat little building, easy to miss, which he did the first time he walked past it. There's an actual band buried in the back, filling the air with foreign songs of whimsy and love. The lack of a wait for a table shows it's a step down from the place they went on their first date, but the two seated tables scattered like islands show it's got the same purpose. 

They end up smack dab in the middle, which he knows Peepers hates, but he doesn't say a word about it, even though there's another empty table by the window. That's a warning all its own, even though he still automatically checks for all the exits: one forward, two back. 

The conversation is small talk as their meals cook, the painful kind of strangers, putting off the inevitable. What began as a far-fetched worry is growing ever plausible in Hater's mind, after all, what an appropriate place to end it all. Like a bookend, very poetic. He's not even sure he could fight it, because Peepers doesn't let the small things build, he calls him on it. So this is big, unfixable. 

When the food arrives, he pokes at it, releasing stress in the stabbing of steaming noodles. Peepers isn't even doing that much, just staring down and not seeing. It pisses him off, why should he be the sad one? So he says something stupid. 

"Look, whatever you brought me here to say, just say it." he says, fuse obviously short. For some reason, that makes him smile, a weird and sorrowful thing. 

"You've never been one for dillydallying. I've always liked that. You know where you stand." he says. Past tense. Already over. He hasn't got a shot. 

"Calvin." he says, and some of his pain must have slipped through because he's looking straight at him now. "Please tell me." 

"Ok." he sighs, straightens the dessert menu. Takes a deep breath, psyching himself up. Oh God, this is it. "On Friday, Wong kissed me." 

"He did what?" The words come out unfiltered, a little angry. It hasn't hit deep enough yet for anything else. Peepers' shoulders tense up, catching the emotion. 

"Yea. I'm sorry. I mean, he was drunk, and I-I didn't want it, so it's not like **that**. God he's too...I don't know...Wong for me to like him. Like that." he stutters, all plans abandoned. 

"He kissed you?" Hater asks, still buffering, until the rest of his words hit.  "Against your will?!" he shouts, not that he notices. The protective anger's taken precedence, blocking anything else from view, because Peepers isn't the only one with bad coping mechanisms. 

"Hater, please don't make a scene." he begs, but it's useless. All Hater can see now is red. 

"Answer me." he commands through gritted teeth, fingers curled into his palms. 

"Yes. I-I-I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have let him, it was just out of nowhere. Or well, sort of? He kept making these comments, you know. Sexual stuff, but that's just what he does. I don't know. I didn't want to know how cold his hands were, or that he tasted like Cola, I didn't want this! I'm sorry!" he wails, shaking, sobbing. It makes him want to hold him, protect him, but even that can't get past how much he wants to fucking kill Wong for doing this to him. 

"I'm going to kill him." he says, with such sincerity that it makes Peepers freeze mid sob. 

"You can't."

"Oh yes I can, and I will." 

"No, you **can't**. He's in California. He resigned." And that's really the last straw. 

"That fucking coward!" he tells, banging his hands against the table with such force that their plates fall to the floor and shatter, and he finally notices the music has stopped, and every eye is on them. It yanks him back to reality, and it isn't pretty. 

Peepers is a mess, still shaking, muttering 'I'm sorry' in a constant loop. His left hand is pulling at his hair, his right hand scratching at the bandages, which seep red in blurry lines. Not Wong's fault. His. 

"Peepers. I'm -" 

"I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave." A waiter says, his hand resting symbolically on a black taser at his waist. 

"Right." Hater says. "Of course. Sorry for...I'll pay for the damages later." he promises, not sure if that's true, but he has to say something. 

~~~

They leave, Hater trailing purposefully behind his boyfriend - if that title is even true after all this - because he doubts his touch will be reassuring at this point. The silence is vast, unscalable from his end. They walk, crunching the leaves that have finally decided to fall underfoot. It isn't until they're halfway back that there's anything else.

"You know, I really liked that restaurant." Peepers says, with just enough regret that Hater just had to laugh. He joins in a moment later, and they're laughing so hard they can't walk anymore, bent over at the waist. One look at each other and it comes back, and they must look mad but maybe that's true. Maybe that's ok. 

"I'm sorry." Hater says, once he can, sobering things. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. I was just so worried. I thought I'd done something wrong. Something I couldn't fix. I thought I was going to lose you." he admits, never mind his pride, he certainly doesn't deserve it anymore. 

"Oh. I thought you'd hate me. For letting myself get taken advantage of. I don't really know why. Not entirely, at least." he says, with the pained gaze he's sadly familiar with. Looking through the years as easily as a book, reliving the darkness. "It was stupid. I was stupid." 

"It's not. It's what you feel, and that makes it important. Incorrect, though. I could never hate you." 

"Even if I really did run off with Wong?" he asks, trying to bring some humor to this whole mess, or brush his words off. Hater plays his part, but doesn't let him get away with the latter. 

"If he made you happy, I'd come to your wedding. Say a speech and everything." 

"You're too good for me, you know." he says, shaking his head, as if he still can't believe it's all real. "You're perfect." 

"No." he says, suddenly serious. "I'm not, and this isn't going to work out if you really think so. I'm trying my best, but I'm going to fuck up. I'm going to get angry for bad reasons. Sometimes for no reason." he confesses, shameful and certain. "Some days I'm not going be able to be the one that's put together. I'm better, but I've still suffered. Still got shit I don't like thinking about too." 

"Hater." Peepers breathes, voice heavy. "You should have told me." 

"And put something else on your plate? Fat chance." he snorts, and smiles. "Worst comes to worst I've got Ripov to talk to, or my other captain." 

Peepers doesn't look satisfied with that answer in the least, but he accepts the answer with the same respect Hater gives him. At least they've got that. That's more than many couples could say.

"You know, I actually **earned** that title." he continues, letting go. At least, for now.

"So did my wittle Timmy, by virtue of being adorable." 

"I don't think that counts." 

"You'll understand once you meet him." 

"Sure." he says, oozing sarcasm.

"Do you want to?" 

"Right now?" he asks, surprised. Hater shrugs. 

"I don't think either of us are fit to work right now. We'll call in sick, fuel some rumors." he teases, with a tiny glint in his eyes at making some of them true. 

"You're terrible." he says, which he's come to learn doesn't necessarily mean he's opposed to the idea.

"You love me." Hater says, like always. 

"More than anything." Peepers replies, as usual. 

They've made it. 


	32. Disasters in B Minor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: gratuitous amounts of fluff

The first thing Emily Ripov does when Peepers arrives at her house is punch his partner in the shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. 

"Martinez! What did I tell you about visiting on a work day?!" 

"Twenty four -" Hater begins to reply sheepishly, head bowed, but she interrupts him anyway. 

"Twenty-four hours notice! I had to stop my walk with Peewee early, and you know how hyper she gets without exercise." A cursory glance reveals 'Peewee' is a fluffy white thing of indeterminable breed, panting slightly. 

"You don't **have** to see me, you know." Hater grumbles, rubbing his still-tender shoulder.

Ripov stares at him as if he's sprouted a second head before clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disgust. 

"Don't be ridiculous. You get swept off to some fancy college right out of school, and then it's graduate studies and a dissertation in **Chile** , oh no." she says, an otherwise buried accent catching the 'e.' "I'm not missing any more time with you. You're stuck with me until one of us kicks the bucket."

"For a moment, Ripov, you almost sounded sweet." Hater quips, earning him a withering look, but with Peepers' own experiences in mind, this is probably a normal and somewhat pleasant interaction. Still, better safe than sorry. 

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, Lieutenant Ripov. It's my fault." he explains, finally earning her attention. "I don't know if you remember me. We met at a VA event. I'm Captain Calvin Johnson." 

"Of course I remember you. You were the only man there not hitting on me. Guess I now know why, though I can't say I'm surprised." 

"Was it obvious?" Peepers asks, alarmed. He definitely hoped he'd kept it under wraps, since being dishonorably discharged was a fear for his entire service. 

"Not to straight people." she assures him, although it really doesn't matter now. Don't Ask, Don't Tell has been repealed for almost two years. He's not sure he'll ever get used to that. "But don't think you can pull rank on me, Johnson. I'm army, I don't have to listen to you." she warns, and even with only a few inches on him, she towers. 

"Technically I think we're civilians now." he points out, perhaps unwisely, but she just snorts. 

"I think I can see why he choose you. Come on in." she says, opening the door. They enter, kicking off their shoes at the mat, hanging their sweaters on the rack. As Ripov pulls hers off, he notices webs of scar tissue across her dark skin, pinkish-white, fairly recent. 

"Didn't your mother teach you it's not nice to stare?" Ripov says, and he flushes. Caught in the act. 

"Sorry." 

"It's fine. I'm just messing with you." she says, standing straight and pointing to the roundish mark on her upper arm. "Bullet." She shifts to the more jagged marks along her neck and collarbone. "Grenade." Up to the more faint line under her right eye. "Playing with knives." Finally, she yanks up the hem of the left leg of her cargo pants, revealing the prosthetic made of thin, black metal. "Land mine. Or shrapnel, depending on what you count." 

"Should I be impressed or disappointed?" he asks, and she shrugs. 

"I don't know. Apparently I'm lucky to be alive." she says, with an edge of self-deprecation that makes Peepers nod in understanding and Hater roll his eyes. 

"Ugh. Hating yourself is **so** fifteen years ago, Ripov." he says, with an overdose of annoyance that makes her smile. It's strange for Peepers to watch. He knows how childhood friends act in theory, but he never had one, so he's still mentally adjusting. 

"I know, you were the champion of it. Very Captain America, picking fights with drug dealers." 

"I don't like bullies." he quotes. "That reminds me, have you heard anything from Jeff? He hasn't sent me anything since I moved here." 

It's so fast pace, jumping subjects and time in a second, and he's having trouble keeping track. So Peepers decides to just leave them to it and take a better look at his surroundings. 

It's a nice house, one story, open floor plan. The kitchen is modern, the living room tastefully decorated. There's signs of Ripov's occupation everywhere: chew toys, a gate blocking the hallway to what he presumes are bedrooms, and a dog door with a sheath in the back door. Actually, there's something scratching at the dog door. 

Peepers walks over to the door and peeks out the window, expecting to see something like a Great Dane that could cause enough damage to warrant being locked out. Instead he finds the very dog whose picture he's seen roughly three billion times. Captain Tim, in the flesh. He's **tiny** , more like an overgrown spider than an mammal, pawing and occasionally yapping at the door. 

He looks back at Hater and Ripov, still engrossed in conversation, and decides it can't hurt to let him in. What harm could this little thing do? 

The answer is a lot, starting with him. The first thing the 'adorable' 'captain' does is bite him, hard! Not enough to draw blood, his teeth are little nubs, but enough to hurt. Then he starts scratching at his legs, like he's a post or something, and he's never been more grateful for pants. As a finale, the little terror growls at him before leaping at his chest with enough force to knock him to the ground. 

"Aw!" Hater coos, now standing above him in his miserable state as a demon dog's resting place. "He likes you!" 

"You have got to be kidding me." Peepers groans, rubbing his head, which didn't take kindly to the fall. 

"Sadly, he isn't." Ripov chimes in, handing him an ice pack calmly. "You'd be in way worse shape if he was." 

"How?!" 

"You don't want to know." she says simply, which is answer enough. Hater says nothing, too busy taking pictures to add to his collection, before moving on to petting the monster, who has the nerve to look happy. 

"Who's a cute little puppy? Yes, you are! You are! My adorable Tim Tim and my handsome boyfriend are getting along, aren't they?" 

"Wonderfully." Peepers says flatly, and gets licked for his trouble. The skin tingles even after he wipes the saliva off. (He suspects there's acid in it.) 

Removing the creature proves troublesome, as his claws have dug into his shirt, and leave little holes once he manages. This only cements the fact that Captain Tim is not a cute and lovable puppy, but in fact a destruction machine and possible demon. 

Peepers is ready to tell Hater as much, but the words get stuck in his throat when he sees the pure joy on his face, like the stars had all lined up just for him. 

Alright. He supposes he can learn to tolerate this **thing**. For Hater's sake. 

~~~

A half-hour and several scratches, licks, and vaguely menacing yaps later, they leave, though not before Ripov puts her number in Peepers' phone and says to call if he needs any help dealing with Hater, which almost makes the whole thing worth it. Key word: almost. 

Because as soon as he climbs into Hater's van - his own car to be retrieved from the parking lot tomorrow - he notices that his face is somewhat...well...burny? He pulls down the mirror to see eerily parallel lines of red skin on his cheek, tender to the touch. His eye is puffy too, strange considering how long it's been since he was crying. It isn't until he feels the lump of phlegm in his throat it all comes together. 

"I'M ALLERGIC TO YOUR STUPID MURDER DOG!" he screeches, so out of nowhere that the van swerves for a moment before righting itself. 

"Oh." he says, looking at him for a few seconds, confirming. "Uh, sorry? I'll get you some medicine on the way home." 

"You fucking better." he says, though the affect is somewhat ruined by the mid-sentence sneeze. 

His condition continues to deteriorate as they drive home, only stopping at Walgreens to load up on antihistamines, nasal decongestants, and milk, as Hater was running low. Peepers' pride keeps him from being literally carried up, but he does take the elevator - which has changed music since last time - because he's damn well earned it today. 

Still, he remains a fluid-dripping, lousy-feeling mess even when wrapped in blankets, drugged up, and judiciously cuddled by Hater. It seems that being the little spoon does not, in fact, solve all problems. 

"Ugh." he groans, burying his face in a pillow. "No wonder we never had any pets when I was a kid." There was a dog before his birth, Cosmo, but Peepers just assumed he died or was actually taken to a farm around the same time. 

"Really? Not even fish?" 

"There were goldfish, of course, when I was around seven. But my parents didn't approve when I started looking into ways to make more of them naturally. Petco prices were a ripoff." he says, making Hater chuckle and place kisses on the back of his neck, which was nice. 

"Speaking of Ripovs, I know something that will cheer you up." 

"Oh, do tell." he says, not even attempting to hide his sarcasm. He was too tired and done with this rotten day. Hater continues on with undampened enthusiasm. 

"I have to buy a suit." Peepers doesn't realize the severity of that proclamation at first, his brain too fried. 

"What for? Did you win another award?" 

"No, not yet. My mentor, Jeff, is getting married in two weeks. He's asked me to be his best man! Only because his brother couldn't get out of Uzbekistan in time, but still. Second choice." 

"Well, it's hard to beat family. Congratulations to both of you. Who is he marrying?" he asks, and feels the shrug. 

"I don't know. Some doctor named Albert. I'm going to grill them at the rehearsal next week, though I doubt I'll find anything. Jeff generally has good taste." 

"So do you." he says, modesty lost somewhere between I-10 and floor six. Hater's laughter is musical, vibrating through him as a pleasant buzz. 

"I guess I do." he says, hands sliding under his shirt. They're not going anywhere, just seeking skin, which is good, because he does not have the energy for more. Hater pairs this with more lazy kisses along his neck and collarbone, and he hums his satisfaction. Maybe in a bit he'd turn over and kiss him proper, but for now he's content to be lavished in affection. 

"Now I know no one's supposed to outshine the" Hater pauses, searching for the right word. "spouse. But I'd appreciate if you were my plus one." 

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Hater." he says, finally moving to face him, catching a wayward curl around one finger and twisting up. 

"Mhm." he hums, tilting closer and whispering, as if it were a secret. "What if I let you pick my outfit? Would that get me somewhere?" he asks, knowing full well the answer. 

"Including the tie?" he says, fingers moving down to his neck, tracing the invisible garment. 

"Naturally." 

"Hmm." he says, thinking. "I think the tie should be red. You look good in red." 

"Do I?" he says, a little cocky. 

"Yes. Creme too, but I don't trust you to keep it clean. Plus, it wouldn't match the dress shirt." 

"You've got it all planned out, don't you cariño?" 

"Of course. I've been wanting to get you in a suit for months." 

"Woah, get a guy a ring first!" Peepers shoves him for that, but it's worth it. 

"You know what I meant." he huffs, but pulls him close again. He yawns, pressing his head against his chest and shifting his limbs into a more comfortable position. "I'm tired. Kiss me?" he asks, moving a hand back to his hair to bring their faces closer. 

"Anything for you, darling." 

~~~~

Two days later, they actually **do** end up making out in a changing room, because Hater in a suit is the kind of devilishly handsome previously only reserved for Ryan Gosling. 

Hater's tie is chardonnay red, and looks better askew than straight. 

* * *

It isn't until twenty minutes before the rehearsal that Peepers learns the real identity of the mentor Jeff, as they were picking up Ripov, who was a plus one guest of the other party, and only referred to people by last name. 

"Your mentor is Dr. Jeff Jackson?! **The** Dr. Jackson? As in, event horizon precision, Hawking radiation researcher, fundamentally changed our understanding of black holes and the end of the universe, Dr. Jackson?" 

"That's the one." he says nonchalantly, and Peepers punches him in the shoulder. 

"You idiot! Did you not think that maybe this was maybe pertinent information?"

"No, it isn't." 

"But what am I going to say to him? I don't even know what he's been working on lately!" he says, panic lacing his words like bad wine. Hater's hand reaches for his, stopping the shaking. 

"Relax, babe. You'll talk to him about the wedding. Because this is his wedding rehearsal. Besides, he isn't a researcher anymore, just a professor. You'll be fine." 

"You promise?" 

"I promise." 

"Jesus Christ, it's like I'm stuck in a romance novel." Ripov says with fake disgust, breaking the moment. 

"You're just jealous because your pulguita can't compare." 

"Oh don't even try that shit with me, Martinez. My girlfriend is fucking perfect, and you know it. She's the cutest person in the whole world." she says adoringly, a strange note for the normally brusque veteran. 

Their gay banter continues, but Peepers stops listening, never able to take how much of a braggart Hater was about him and learning all too quickly that these two could argue to the moon and back. 

~~~~

Peepers isn't sure what he did expect Dr. Jeff Jackson, renowned astro and theoretical physicist to be like, but it wasn't the sort of man who wore a robe to his wedding. It was a nice enough robe, purple with green accents, and matched the peridot earrings he wore quite well. But it wasn't very traditional. 

Nor it seemed, was he. 

"Hater!" he says, hurrying over to the pair on first sight and clapping Hater across the back. "It's so good to see you again, man. It's been too long." 

"It's only been a few months, Jeff." he teases, smile wide in a way Peepers had never seen directed at someone else before. There's a twinge of jealousy at that, but he pushes it down. They were close friends, that was all. 

"Ah, but we both know -" Jeff starts.

"Time is relative!" Hater echos, and they both laugh the way only an inside joke can make you laugh. The twinge flares into something bigger, something that makes him reach for the hand not wrapped around Jeff's shoulders and lace their fingers together. This catches Jeff's attention, who pulls away with a smug sort of expression. 

"And who is this, hermano?" he asks, looking between them knowingly. Hater flushes. 

"Lo siento, this is my boyfriend." he says, gesturing to him to continue. 

"I prefer partner." he says, inclining the word to make the severity of it clear before holding out a hand. "Captain Calvin Johnson. Friends call me Peepers." It was not an invitation for him to do so. "An honor to meet you." He leaves off the usual sir. Jeff doesn't seem to notice.

"Likewise, man." he says cheerily, and would likely have said more if someone had not come and tapped him on the shoulder before whispering conspiratorially. 

"Sorry to leave so soon, bride's got some jitters." he says with a helpless shrug. "I'll see you later, Hater." A wink. "Calvin." With that, he leaves, and Hater arches an eyebrow at him. 

"What?" Peepers says, a bit defensively. 

"Oh, nothing. **Captain**." he says, a tease on his tongue, and Peepers sighs. 

"I don't know what came over me." he says, holding his head in his hands, embarrassment flooding his system. 

"I do. Somebody's jelly~." he says, singsong, and Peepers groans. He'd never hear the end of this, would he? But strangely, he does. 

"Relax, dude." Hater says, Californiaisms leaking back into his speech after first contact. "There's nothing to worry about there. Even if we weren't at his wedding rehearsal, he only thinks of me as a brother." he says, strangely sad. 

"And you?" he asks, before he can think better of it. 

"Oh, that's ancient history. I mean, I was a kid, you know? Who wouldn't have a crush on Major -" 

"Peepers!" They turn to see Ripov holding hands with a very pretty and...familiar-looking Indian girl. When the lesbian duo gets closer, he sees why. 

"Miss Elizabeth. It's good to see you." he says, near automatically. It's surprising to see her, though he doesn't have a good reason why. Maybe that he never really thought about his therapist and their staff in the outside world. With families and girlfriends. Who happened to be childhood friends with his boyfriend. Small world. 

"I've told you a thousand times, Calvin, you can call me Beeza." she says, with a quiet exasperation that was hard to catch. "The bride invited you?" she asks, sounding slightly shocked. She mutters something like 'is that allowed' under her breath, though he might have heard that wrong. 

"No, the groom...I suppose. Through extension." he says, gesturing to Hater. "This is Hater, my partner. He's the best man." he explains. 

"I see." she says, sounding relieved, he thinks. She's so calm that it's hard to tell sometimes. 

"You two know each other how?" Hater asks, with an odd sort of edge. Like confusion, but not quite. Peepers isn't sure how to answer. He's not ashamed of the therapy, in present company at least, but it seems such a weird way to know someone. 

"Um..." he says, looking to Beeza for an answer. 

"We're acquaintances." she replies, with a finality that makes further questioning impossible. It's impressive. Peepers wonders where she learned to do it. 

Hater accepts it, with a hint of reluctance, and they all make small talk about weather and music and books. Safe subjects, but all the while there's something lurking underneath. Eventually Hater says he has to go to the restroom, and drags Peepers along. 

It's not an excuse, because he does go, but as he's washing his hands he asks a question. 

"So. You and Beeza. Did you date or something?" Peepers freezes, shell-shocked. 

" **What?!** " 

"I mean, I don't care if you did! You know, before. It's not a big deal. Forget I said anything." he says, scrubbing his hands and not looking at him. 

"I don't understand." he says, running a hand through his hair. "I'm gay. **She's** gay! Or bisexual, at least." he adds, an afterthought. "What made you think that?" 

"I don't know. The awkwardness. First name basis. Not saying how you met. It's all very ex-type stuff. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to jump to anything." He's still scrubbing, too hard it seems, because his palms are turning red. Peepers is familiar with the process, grabs them before the skin breaks.

"Hater." he says, making him look at him. "Beeza works for my therapist. I've never seen her in the real world before, and I didn't want to bring it up. But I'm not mad at you for thinking we dated. I was just surprised." 

"I know. I know." he whispers, averting his gaze again. "I just don't want to be that kind of guy." 

"What kind of guy?"

"The kind of guy who gets mad if you liked other people. Jealous, fine, that's normal. But not angry." he says, ashamed. "Ripov calls me Captain America, but I'm really more of a Hulk. A big, stupid, smasher of things." he says, his laugh sounding like a note in a rest, misplaced.

"No." Peepers says firmly. "You're Bruce Banner. Brilliant, attractive, with some anger issues. But that's ok, because you work on it. You take it one day at a time." he says, because sometimes no matter how long it's been, no matter how much you think you're better, you need someone to remind you that you'll be ok.  

"Thank you." he says, a little choked, and hugs him. Peepers hugs back, until the door creaks open and they remember they're in a bathroom. They exit, their hands linked together, and Hater adds a swing like newlyweds. He finds he doesn't mind that. 

"So which Bruce Banner are we talking here? Edward Norton or Mark Ruffalo? Because one is clearly superior, looks wise." Peepers shakes his head in exaggerated despair. 

"I take it back, you **are** an idiot." 

"Your idiot?" he asks, squeezing his hand. 

"Yea." he says, smiling. "All mine." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Jeff's brother in this AU is Captain Inkers! They're not blood related, but they are still very close, and Jeff thinks of Inkers as his right-hand man.


	33. Dude We're Getting The Band Back Together!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mild internalized homophobia, reclaimed q-slur
> 
> i'd recommend reading capture the light after this chapter, but as always, the spinoffs aren't necessary to understand the plot, merely ~enhance~ the experience

The rest of the wedding rehearsal goes well, considering the bride and groom disappearing halfway through. The planner, a dangerously efficient woman named Janet, doesn't let the detail get in the way of her mission. She substitutes Jeff with a man of similar height and build, a Latin professor everyone called Cube, and the bride with Peepers. He was the only one that's around the same size, apparently. It's only a glare that promises a lifetime on the couch that keeps Hater from cracking up. 

Cube is actually quite a nice fellow, soft-spoken, polite, and has an edge of constant anxiety that Peepers finds relatable. He is also, judging by the black ring on his middle finger and the way his shoulders tense when the officiator says 'love', wholly uninterested in ever actually being a groom. His recommendations in books, however, is impressive. To say the least. 

"You know, I'm also around the same size as Jeff." Hater points out as they leave, his voice a huff. 

"You can't exactly be best man for yourself." 

"Oh, just watch me. At my wedding, I'm not even going to ask Jeff. I'll let a stranger do it. See if he regrets skipping out then!" he declares, but Peepers is still caught on two words. 

"You think you're going to get married someday?" he asks, his throat tight. Peepers has never allowed himself that possibility, that dream. Now, it blooms in his mind. A spring wedding, outdoors, with the aqua blue sky above them. Pastel colors in the flowers, the outfits, the cake towering like a monument. And the groom, his Hater all made up, a little nervous, waiting for him. Holding back tears because he was just so happy. 

"A guy can hope." Hater says, fracturing the fantasy, and shame floods his system. It's too early to think of such things, it wouldn't even be legally binding here, and Hater, he might not want that. After all, what kind of idiot would want to marry Peepers? 

"Probably not in the church, unless they get really cool about non-Catholics. And dudes marrying each other." Hater continues, unaware of his boyfriend's inner turmoil. 

"How do you know it's going to be a guy? You like both." he points out, even though the idea of Hater marrying some girl or worse, some other guy, makes him feel hallow inside. 

"Well," he says sheepishly, looking over at him with a flush on his face. "Like I said, a guy can hope." 

Peepers decides to leave it at that. For now.

* * *

Nathan from rocket design is everything Wong said he would be: organized, ignorant in exoplanet matters, and clearly an engineer more than a physicist, his thought processes all A to B. It's a nice break from the skip the C way most of his coworkers think, but he's also too nosy for Peepers' liking. 

"So, two weeks ago you and Dr. Martinez both happen to get sick on the same day. Last week you both use a vacation day on Wednesday, and this week you're asking to leave early on Friday. Is there something I should know about?" he asks, hovering on accusation. The office is practically unrecognizable now, the posters gone, everything stacked and organized and perfect. Wrong. 

"Don't worry, sir. We already have promising results from the Alpha Centauri system, and are working on confirming last year's findings. Our work isn't suffering for our absence." he assures him, avoiding the question. After two decades, you get good at that. 

"That's not what I meant." Nathan says, sighing and taking off his glasses, wire-rimmed, missing one of the nose pads. "Look, I don't know what your last boss was like." Peepers tenses, is he going to ask about Wong? He's not remotely ready to tackle that yet. Certainly not without Wander. "But I want to know what's going on in my worker's lives. I care about them, about you. Bleeding heart, my wife says. But it does help if I know why you're leaving so often." he says, and Peepers can tell he means it.

"You really want to know, sir?" he asks, even though his time is limited, the wedding imminent, because it would be nice to have someone else to talk to about his mess of a life. 

"Absolutely." 

"The short answer is that I have PTSD and Dr. Martinez is my partner." he says, fear thrumming against his chest at the rushed admittance. Nathan seems fine as far as gay people go, no outright prejudice, but one could never be certain. He prepares for the worst. It doesn't come, as Nathan takes things one at a time.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You're getting treatment, I suppose?" It's silly to delay the issue a few pleasantries, but Peepers is still new at this 'coming out' thing, so the distraction, however grim, seems worth it. 

"Yes sir. My therapist is on an extended vacation, but I'll be coming in late some days when they get back. An hour at most. I can extend mine if that's an issue." he says, some part of him just wanting to jump back to work and say nothing at all. But he should know, Hater's important to him, and this was going to happen more and more as their lives twisted closer together. Hiding wasn't an option anymore. 

Peepers won't allow it to be. 

"No, not at all! You're one of the best, or so I've been told. If your work stays consistent, I see no reason why you should move your appointments. What does this have to do with Dr. Martinez though? Is it a two person job, is that it? I can assign a substitute if that's the case." 

It's at times like these that Peepers wishes desperately he had the courage to just call Hater his boyfriend. To rip off the metaphorical band-aid, instead of the peeling pain of edging ever closer, tip-toeing, avoiding. Maybe someday he could get to that, but not yet. Not without more successes under his belt. 

"No, if he needed to he could work without me. But Hater, that is, Dr. Martinez, he's my **partner** , sir. He tends to get worried if I'm on my own. Perhaps wisely." Nathan's face was still blank.

"He's my lover, sir." he says bluntly, which seems to get the point across. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open, just for a second. 

"R-Right. I see." he says, stuck on short sentences. "That...makes sense. Good for you, both of you! There were rumors, but I didn't want to **assume**. Anyway, I've got no problem with it. Can't say I know many...well." he says, leaking awkwardness like rocket fuel, and Peepers feels ill at the old rush of _sickwrongfreak_ his brain churns out. 

"It was good speaking with you, Dr. Stark, but I have to go now." he says, which isn't a lie. There's a delay before Nathan responds, his voice still staccato.

"Right! Ok. See you on Monday then. The report?" 

"Already in your email, sir. Have a good weekend." 

"Right. Yes. Good weekend. Yes. Goodbye." he says, as Peepers shuts the door behind him. 

~~~

"What took you so long?" Hater asks as he gets into the van, but gets no response.  A glance reveals that Peepers is looking rather intently at the hem of his shirt, as if the loose thread at the edge held the secrets of the universe. 

He recognizes it, a specific kind of hyperfocusing he does that Hater mentally labels 'The Heisenberg Look.' Peepers gets it whenever he finds something he can't classify easily on the equipment, or when strangers say his shirt looks nice. He told him once that it was the feeling of finishing a puzzle and having a piece left over. A problem without answers. Or an answer without a problem. Not bad, but strange. 

"Are you still thinking about work?" Hater says, pulling back into a parking spot. Normally he just lets Peepers mull through these moods, since they weren't harmful, and his interference doesn't help much. He's fine with conflicting information, such is life, but Peepers is all patterns and schemas. If something couldn't be explained, the whole system had to be rewired. But the process could take hours, and today he wants Peepers all to himself, no star systems a million miles away in his thoughts. It had to be work, he reasons. because what else happened today? 

"No. I'm not **that** much of a workaholic." he says, which is a good sign. If he's still got the peace of mind to poke fun, he's not too far in. Maybe Hater can pull him out. 

"What is it then?" Peepers' lips purse, his fingers steepled in his lap, debating what to tell him. A hint of worry rises at the hesitation, maybe this was something bad. 

"Nathan asked why we leave together." he says eventually, tone purposefully flattened, and Hater understands instantly. Peepers was many things, but a good liar was not one of them. So his choices were limited, and none of them preferable. 

"What did you tell him?" he asks, hand reaching for his, just in case of the worst, although he doubts it. Foreign as he is in their department, Nathan's a good guy. Hate doesn't seem a likely reaction. 

"The truth." he says simply, which tells him nothing at all. 

"How did he react?" 

"Well, he was surprised. Confused. Congratulatory, for some reason. Awkward. Very strange." he says, and all Hater's worries are made irrelevant. 

"So he acted like a straight person." 

"What?" he says, finally breaking his gaze with the edge of his shirt. 

"You know, when a straight person finds out you're queer and they get all weird about it? If you see them a lot, they usually get better, but strangers just sort of...what's the word...freak out? No, that's not it. Like, they thought the Gays were some foreign creature in a magical rainbow land and now they are in the presence of one and we're just...people." he explains, rather poorly, but Peepers is nodding. 

"That's a good way of putting it. He wasn't mean or anything. But he certainly wasn't accepting, no that wasn't it. He didn't understand." he says, his face lighting up at the epiphany, and the look is gone. Hater shifts back into drive. 

"Yea, you're going to have to get used to that. It's the most common reaction, nowadays. I can't believe it hasn't happened to you before." 

"Well the first person I told stabbed me, the second was my genderqueer therapist, then you, then my family." he says, counting them off on his fingers. "Three-fourths of them have only been in the last few months. I don't really have experience with people knowing." 

God, when you put like that it was easy to see where all the panic, the inexperience, the nervousness came from. Hater felt a little bad, had he pushed him too soon without knowing? 

"But you're ok with it, right? You want people to know?" Hater asks, hoping selfishly that the answer was yes, that he could continue to treat Peepers as the light of his life that he is. He'll get it if he isn't, but that doesn't mean it won't hurt. 

"Hm." he says, tying another knot on his eyepatch, a sign he was thinking. "I don't know if I can be...proud about it. Not for a while yet. But I don't want to be ashamed of myself anymore. I'm not broken for loving you, wanting you in my heart and home and" he blushes, unable to say the explicit. "everything else. I'm making myself believe it. Slowly. I hope that's ok." 

Hater smiles, a fond one with no edges that only Peepers could get his face to do, and presses a kiss against his palm. 

"Take as long as you need. For you, I'd wait an eternity." 

~~~

The romanticism of Hater's remark is lost somewhat when it spins into a discussion about countable infinity and theoretical math. Peepers' being primarily a nominalist, with some obvious exceptions of pi and other irrationals, found the whole subject infuriating. Interesting sure, but frankly a headache waiting to happen. He wouldn't even allow Hater to try to explain the Monster to him, covering his ears with his palms. 

Hater finds himself realizing the extent of his gayness for Peepers when he laughs instead of pushing it, kisses him long and slow once they park in front of their apartment complex. Peepers blinks at him with confusion, but doesn't ask what the sudden rush of affection was for, as he sometimes did, voice wavering like he still has trouble believing Hater actually likes him. 

He calls it progress. 

They retrieve and change into their suits with minimal fooling around, because Peepers is nothing if not punctual. It doesn't help matters that his phone's buzzing like an angry hornet's nest with texts from Jeff. His boyfriend reads his distressed messages with an increasingly terrible accent as he drives to the church, almost causing Hater to hit a pole when he stretches dude into a five syllable word. 

"You're terrible." he accuses as they walk into the church, smoothing down the white dress shirt. 

"Who, me?" Peepers gives him an owlish look of innocence that is utterly unconvincing. 

Hater clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth disapprovingly, but still kisses him before they part. He's not a strong enough man to resist. 

* * *

Jeff is even more freaked out than his texts indicated, pacing a hole in the floor of the dressing room, his panic surrounding him like an aura. But Hater's familiar with this mood, has seen it in some form before every paper submission and science conference, and it always turned out fine. 

At first it was strange, working under your hero, the man your idolized. The guy you thought of at night, once you realized you were allowed to. Yes, those first few months were awkward. But the truth became abundantly clear the more time they spent together, ringing like a bell. 

Jeff wasn't Major Threat. He was, once upon a time, when he was young and angry and on the blurry line of desperate to live and hoping to die. Hater saw so much of himself in the rock star, wanted to be him just so he could **feel** again. But that was years ago for Jeff, a messy past he never forget but didn't dwell on. He dug himself out of the pit of his brain and their neighborhood, made himself into someone of import, though he never did lose his edge. Hater still burst into laughter remembering those hearty Harvard grads' faces when Jeff tore them a new one. His tongue was just as sharp in speech as song. 

All those years with Jeff made him into a real person, into Hater's closest friend, in fact. Even with a decade gap between them, their lives seemed oddly parallel. They talked about the neighborhood they would always think of as home, sometimes fondly, often with morose acceptance. Some things don't change. They talked physics: bouncing, tossing, rebounding ideas until the implications bled through, smudged calculation chalk on their hands and pants. Occasionally, with the assist of alcohol, secrets bubbled. Family, drugs, the sweet song of suicide, broken hearts. Finally mended. 

So Hater knew exactly what to do when he saw the sweat, the muttered doubts, the wringing hands. He claps his hand across his mentor's back and tells him to "Fucking chill, man." 

"I know, I know." he sighs, finally standing still. "I just want everything to be perfect. I love them so much." Jeff says, and even though he's lovey-dovey with everyone, it's almost overwhelming how much adoration fills his voice. (Hater wonders briefly if he sounds like that when he talks about Peepers.)

"How did you even meet this person? It seems a bit fast." Hater points out, the voice of reason, for once. 

"I never told ya about Tumbleweed?" he says, sounding surprised at himself. He vaguely remembers that name from when they got drunk, between sighs and the usual nonsense. 

"Not really, no." 

"Well, do you remember when I stopped being Major Threat, officially?" 

"Sí." he says, instead of what immediately comes to mind, which is of course. When your favorite band, your coping mechanism for a shitty life, retires suddenly and no one knows where they went, you tend to remember it. 

"They were the one that helped me out of it. Being a rock star looks fun but it's all drugs and broken brains man. I never thought I was smart enough to be a scientist, but they said 'why not?' Helped me apply to college, study for my entrance exams, write the essays. And just as my new life was starting, they left. It wasn't a surprise or anything. They weren't meant to settle down, not then, and I wasn't a good enough reason to stay. I didn't blame them. I never could." he says, but even as he says it, the words don't ring quite true. Maybe he didn't blame Tumbleweed, but that didn't stop Jeff from missing them. 

"We saw each other a handful of times over the years, and it was always good. The sex, obviously, but just talking to them made my day. They never stayed, never gave me a number, and once I stopped leaving the city so much, our interactions stopped. And then one day, a few months ago, they message me. Just out of the blue! Unpredictable as always, my Tumbleweed. They live in Houston now, they say, have for a couple years. It was only a matter of time before I fell to one knee, you know? Now that we had a shot. Because I never stopped loving them, and it only got deeper seeing them again." 

"Bro." Hater says empathetically, resting a hand on his shoulder. "If you really feel that way, then there's nothing to worry about. From what you told me, Tumbleweed wouldn't say yes if they didn't love you back. So stand up straight and get your stoner ass out there!" he demands, but it's all for show, because his voice is gentle. Jeff knows this, and it makes him relax.

"You're right, Hater. I've got this! Thanks." 

"I'm your best man, that's my job. Speaking of, Inkers?" 

"He'll be out of that Uzbek jail by March, and he told us not to wait up on him. Already have for nearly twenty years." he blinks at the realization. "Dios, I'm getting old!" he says, laughing. 

"We all are, brother. Might as well embrace it." 

"Oh Hater." he says, placing a hand on his shoulder, his eyes shining like newly born O-stars. "You're such a different man from the one I met all those years ago, even since the last time I saw you."

"What'd ya mean?" 

"You've grown up." he says, and Hater realizes he's right. He's no longer the kid that went around with scabbed knuckles, looking for excuses to bash someone's face in. He's no longer the up-and-coming scientist saying crazy things about black holes and actually proving some of them. He's an established doctor, middle-aged, living in an apartment instead of a dorm or a research station, dating someone who actually makes him happy instead of tearing him down. 

Not to say he's completely matured. He still swears too much, cleans not often enough, can't cook for shit, and while rock star is definitely off the table, a part of him really hopes musician isn't. The same part of him feels sad that he's not really young anymore, but honestly? Youth ain't all it's cracked up to be. Hater likes the stability of being an adult more than the thrill of young and stupid. Well, mostly. 

"Guess it was about time, Jeff." he says, straightening the quartz crystal around the groom's neck so he has something to do. "Does this mean I have to pick up a young prodigy from the hood, to keep in form?" 

"Nah." Jeff says, letting his hand slide off as he smooths down the front of his robe, takes one last look in the mirror. "Just don't wait so long before asking that cutie's hand, my dude. Although, seeing how possessive he was, maybe he'll pull an Elle Woods and ask you." he teases, slipping through the door, which doesn't stop Hater from yelling after him. 

"He's a physicist, not a lawyer!" 

Vaguely, he wonders when he stopped being ashamed about knowing the plot of Legally Blonde. 

~~~

Meanwhile Peepers gets to work securing their front row seats, where he's not surprised in the least to find Beeza and Ripov chatting amiably with Sylvia. He's accepted the broken probabilities of the city by now. 

"Evening, ladies." he says politely, which doesn't stop Sylvia from pulling him into a hug and ruffling his hair. 

"Hey there, optic nerd! Long time, no see!" she says, before punching him in the arm. Maybe it's a lesbian thing. "You haven't been coming around the station lately, what gives?" 

"Oh, um. We've been using Kepler data the last month or two, so I've had nothing worth analyzing." he explains, but even though he's got no reason to, her words make him feel cowed. 

"Well then just drop by, you nerd! Doesn't have to be all work and no play. We're friends, ain't we?" 

Peepers ponders her question. He's never really had all that many friends before. Acquaintances and underlings aplenty, but friends? He has not one prerequisite to compare Sylvia to. Even Wander was limited by professional formality, and Hater ended up being his romantic partner, which put him in a different category altogether. A few months ago he would never have thought so, but now...maybe. 

"I suppose we might be." he decides upon finally with a stiff nod. Sylvia sighs and rests her arm on his shoulder as if he were a fence, her cuff link's metal pressing a cool circle into his skin through the shirt. It's annoying, but he doesn't know the consequences of pushing her off, so he waits. 

"It's not a trick question, Johnson. How many meals have you gotten me from Bloyd's at this point? Enough to make me have to take up exercise, brainy boy." she says, poking at the slight curve of the dress shirt just above her cummerbund, which is nasty bright blue with sparkles on the edge. His face must show his distaste, because she huffs at him. 

"Hey, we can't all be ab machines like you and Bonehead. Do you guys even sleep?" 

"In theory. However, I was actually reacting to your **interesting** cummerbund." 

"Oh this thing?" Sylvia asks, looking down at the atrocity. "Yea, that's my older brother's, all the rage in the early 2000's. This whole outfit used to be theirs, actually. I just fixed the hem for my maid of honor outfit." 

"And you aren't wearing a dress because?" 

"Are you kidding me? The bride makes their own clothes by hand, I can't compete with that with some off-the-rack dress! At least in a suit I can look tasteful."

"Define tasteful." he says witheringly, and she grins. 

"Glad to see the new year hasn't changed your attitude, charming." she says with equal sarcasm. Peepers smiles a little too, more relaxed now. There's something about weddings that makes him feel nervous, even though all he has to do is sit. So many ways it could all go wrong, he supposes. 

As if on cue, it is at that moment that the music rings out, not organ but definitely acoustic, (was that a banjo?), Jeff and Hater sliding under the trellis, the latter with an overly obvious wink in his direction. Peepers rolls his eye in the sake of form, but he's grinning stupidly. He does love seeing Hater in a suit. 

"Well, that's my cue." Sylvia says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she'd straightened it out for the event, and pointing an accusing finger at Peepers. "You are visiting me next week. We'll get Bloyd's. I'll even pay for yours." 

"It's a date, Zbornak." 

~~~

There were no words to capture the moment of realization Peepers has when he sees his therapist, Dr. Iviticus **Albert** aka Wander, walking down the aisle in a dress of dazzling, eye-opening pink. A dress that indeed could not be matched by one of the assembly line. Even at a distance, the stitches were perfect, looping gracefully across the fabric. It was the most organized Peepers had ever seen them, and indeed ever would. 

The actual wedding is a blur of music, tears, pseudo-Christian vows and a very unholy kiss, the kind that left an expression Peepers never wanted to see on his therapist's face. At the reception, they were placed at the main table, Hater being the best man and all, and Peepers couldn't help but stare at the bride for a minute before finally just accepting it. Such was life in this math-forsaken city. 

After the initial shock, the reception is actually pretty fun, even at such close proximity to the love birds. Hater and Sylvia swap stories of the couple, though none of Wander's really go past mild embarrassment, since they were such a good soul. Jeff, on the other hand, has his career and personal life skewered with the intensity only an old friend could manage. Jeff gets back at him by loudly recounting Hater in grad school, a three part mini opera. Most of the stories involve too much caffeine, desperate procrastination, and the thesis he later completely disproved in three weeks. It's enough teasing material to last a decade, and though the lingering jealousy simmers, he's grateful to Jeff for the ammunition. 

After the food is eaten and cake smushed in faces, the dance floor really starts to liven up, with things other than strange banjo music, thankfully. Peepers stays in his seat. He's no dancer, never had the time, or rather, never wanted to have to deal with the dates that inevitably came with it. 

And then Hater comes up, his tie loose, hair ruffled, face flushed as he leans it into Peepers'. He had gone off a while ago to catch up with some UCLA buddies while Peepers finished the rest of his meal. Judging from his appearance, there were some drinks involved, an assumption that's confirmed when he speaks. 

"Hey there handsome." he croons, sliding a hand to the back of his neck, undoubtedly feeling the shudder it earned. "Dance with me?" 

"I don't know. I'm not very good at it." 

"I don't care. Love you even if you suck." 

"You're so romantic." he says sarcastically, even though the alcohol-laden words bring a flush to his face. He envies how easily he can say it and still mean it.

"Come onnnn, Peeps." Hater begs, pouting like a five year old, his eyes soft and a little dazed. "Just one song, pleaseee?" he says, batting his eyes like he's cute. Which he is. Damn it. 

"One song?" he asks, and it's clear his resolve is crumbling. 

"Mhmm. I'll even let you lead." 

"Well, in that case." he says, standing up. 

By a twist of fate, the song that starts playing next is slow, all long notes and lyrical, for which Peepers is eternally grateful. He can manage this. They sway back and forth, one two three, one two three, and he starts to gain confidence enough to split time, six steps that Hater easily follows. When the climax of the piece approaches, Peepers feels a rush of stupidity and daring, fueled by the dazed affection in Hater's eyes, and the rest of the world seems so unimportant, so far away. 

Peepers kisses Hater in the middle of the dance floor, completely sober, and it tastes like fireworks used to, before the war. 

It tastes like freedom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even after editing this chapter is a mess but you know what? so is life


	34. Just a Thought (I'm Not OK)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: semi-graphic depiction of a flashback/attack, alluded to self harm, mentions of sexual assault and child abuse
> 
> also a reminder that things in italics are thoughts/memories, bold is for emphasis

"March 27th." Sylvia says suddenly, no warning, no reason behind her switch from the usual Bloyd's small talk to a date. This particular date. Peepers knits his brow and pretends like his stomach isn't trying to leap out of his throat. 

"Excuse me?" he says, fastening on a fake smile and poking his (mostly untouched) piece of pie.

"What's gonna happen on March 27th, Johnson." she says, not a question. An order. Even though she doesn't pull rank on him, he doesn't lie. Not completely, at least. 

"It's Hater's birthday. I'm taking him to a concert." he says, fingers resting on his shirt pocket, where he'd been keeping the tickets for the past three days. Hater snoops too much to hide them anywhere off his person. "Why do you want to know?" 

"Emily said it's an important day for you." It took a moment for Peepers to figure out who 'Emily' was.

"You know Ripov?" 

"Of course I know her. We're lesbians." she says, taking a sip of coffee. As if that explained anything. 

"Do you guys have a secret club or something?" 

"If I told you, it wouldn't be much of a secret, would it?" 

"Fair enough." he concedes, taking a bite of the pie before him. It tastes even less appealing than usual. He's not really sure why Sylvia loves it so much. "What else did she say?" 

"Not to leave you alone." Sylvia says, and his rage flares. Damn her, she had no right to be telling people to look after him, they hadn't even seen each other since the wedding! "Which really doesn't make much sense, if it's **just** Hater's birthday." she says, waiting for him to explain. Well, she was going to be disappointed. 

"I worry too much." he offers in explanation, and she laughs. 

"I know that. Anyone who's ever met you knows that. But I don't think this is about your boyfriend's birthday, Calvin." He blinks, when was the last time she called him that? "It's about what happened on his birthday, isn't it? In Iraq." 

"You're a good detective, Zbornak." he says, sighing. 

"One of the best." she says, smug, before reaching for his hand, which had started shaking without him noticing. "You should tell him." 

"I can't." he says, voice quivering like an arrow in the wind. "He already does so much for me, and this is **his** day. I won't ruin it for him. I won't." he says, determined even as he feels his brain threatening to detach because this is too close, too close to _bomb, fire, pain, blood._

_**Westley.** _

"Stay with me, Johnson." Sylvia says, squeezing his hand, and the contact makes the thoughts recede, just a little. "Breathe." His chest burns as he inhales, just like smoke, dirt, trapped in a sunbeam. He's there, in the diner, but some of him isn't. Some of him is trapped in the memory, in the past, and he's slipping fast.  

"I can't. I won't." he says, repeats on loop, but it's not enough, he needs something real, something solid. Pain. He looks down at the table, no knife, but there is a fork. It'll have to do. 

Peepers reaches for it, wiping off the cream and berry juice on the edge of the plate, and stabs it into the flesh of his arm. Or at least, he thought he did. In his haze, his accuracy wasn't the best. 

"Jesus Christ, Johnson!" Sylvia yelps, pulling her hand back and yanking the offending instrument out of her skin. Luckily the angle was too shallow to cause any lasting damage, the wound didn't even break through skin, but with the force he put behind it, it had to hurt. His throat goes dry.

"I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to....I should go." he says with what little of him is still there, standing up quickly. Too quickly, as it happened. His vision goes a blurry white-black, _blood looks black on dirt_ , and his knees buckle. 

He falls.  

* * *

Sylvia Zbornak has seen a lot of fucked in things in her thirty-three years on this Earth, was pretty much destined to, living with cops, becoming one herself. Blood-splattered crime scenes were taken in with careful, unblinking eyes, the sickening wrongness of it all tucked away for later. She prolongs later as much as possible. Unhealthy, Wander chides her, but she needs the time, the distance. Working with survivors helps, giving back **something** against the senseless uncaring of reality. 

That doesn't mean it isn't hard. 

Sylvia has dealt with children with PTSD before, gently held them through their tears, their shuddering memories. So she knows to get Peepers somewhere quiet, somewhere safe, for when he comes back to reality. That part's easy, built as the ex-Marine is, he's short, and she's strong. Some people give her odd looks as she walks, but that's hardly important. Helping Peepers is her number one priority. 

He murmurs strings of half-jumbled words she doesn't understand through the journey, but finally settles on something coherent, and a little heartbreaking. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it should have been me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should've sent you home. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."

It's at this point that his nails start to dig into his skin, pulling up the edges before she can yank them away. That's the scariest part, really, the desperate, automatic need to **hurt**. As if he wasn't already suffering enough. 

When they arrive home, she starts to feel better, a little more secure. She places him on the couch, wrapping him in a blanket and locking the fabric through his fingers to keep him from hurting himself more. He's shaking, crying silent sobs and rocking back and forth in time with some unheard tempo. 

Sylvia pauses for a moment, unsure what to do from here. Peepers usually isn't fond of touch, stiffens awkwardly in hugs and holds tension too high in his shoulders. But she has a gut feeling her words are too far away right now, and he needs something to hold onto. Carefully, she wraps her arms around him in a loose embrace, easy to escape if he so wished. 

He doesn't. Instead he clings to her with desperate softness, buries his face in her shoulder. She can feel him shuddering, vibrations passing through her own body as he draws close. 

"They really did a number on you, didn't they?" she says, carding fingers through his hair. It's not long, but it's certainly not regulation short anymore. It suits him better, she thinks. 

Eventually, finally, the shaking stops. The breathing slows. The eye closes. He surrenders to sleep. Sylvia untangles herself, tilting his head so it won't cramp, and heads to the kitchen. Wander has told her that a good cup of tea and time can fix anything. 

They haven't been wrong yet. 

* * *

_Calvin looks down at his watch and scowls, tapping the face as if that would change the numbers blinking back at him. Nothing was ever on-time in Iraq, but this wasn't tardy. It was late. Unacceptably so._

_He doesn't know why they were sending him more soldiers anyway. Nothing crucial had happened here for months, and they weren't exactly low on manpower. Calvin suspects his reputation has something to do with it, that they're dumping the new recruits on his base to keep them out of trouble, and for him to fix them._

_Great. Even more incompetent fools for him to straighten out._

_The sun is blistering overhead, but he barely even feels it anymore. It's one of those facts you just come to expect in Iraq. The sun is hot, dirt is everywhere, the locals won't like you. These are tenants of their reality._

_His body hasn't gotten the memo, still produces sweat that slides down his neck and stains his collar dark. Laundry day will have to be moved up if they make him wait any longer for these maggots._

_Calvin takes one last cursory glance at the file containing what little information the higher ups deigned to tell him._

_Five soldiers. Three fresh out of boot camp, two who have been here at least a year. One of them is a woman, requested the switch after an 'incident.' No one was brazen enough to call it what it was. She'll be fine, her record is otherwise imbecile, and he doesn't allow harassment at his base. No warnings, no forgiveness. Anything even close to non-consensual earns immediate dismissal. He's only had to employ it twice._

_The other soldier with experience isn't so much a recruit as a bureaucratic shuffle. Lost his sight in a gas attack a month ago, and the paperwork had yet to go through. So they thought it best to extract him out of an active war zone. Poor devil. Calvin can hardly imagine what an impairment that must be. He'll definitely throw in his own two cents to get the man home._

_The three newbies are of biggest concern. He has very little information on them, no comments, nothing specific. He'll have to suss out their weaknesses for himself. He just hopes to all Heaven they have some inkling of potential._

_Finally, as if on cue, a long covered truck approaches the gate. The soldier on duty, Spencer Jones, receives the ID number and lets them in. Without a verification code. Calvin sighs heavily. He supposes you couldn't expect much from a guy who almost blew himself up with a grenade launcher. Twice. He makes a mental note to reprimand him at role call tomorrow._

_Nevertheless, in this case, he had let in an actual military vehicle. It rolls towards Calvin with slow creakiness all the trucks come to have, given the time. Puffs of black exhaust splutter as it brakes, coming to a halt with a loud groan._

_The driver stands to attention once exiting, but it's well-worn, a curtesy. Calvin doesn't make him keep it up. He asks where the bathroom is, Calvin nods to it. He walks towards the back of the truck, where his five soldiers are currently piling out._

_It's easy to pick out the veterans, as she guides the injured man to the ground, lets him hold onto her shoulder as she stands to otherwise perfect attention. He waves a hand to put them to ease._

_"What are your names?" he asks the pair, and she responds quickly, crisp._

_"Andrea Miller, sir!" The injured man takes a moment, dulled by drugs._

_"Floyd Andes."_

_"Well then, Miller, seeing as you have already assisted Andes thus far, I think it best you take him to the medical ward." he says, and she nods assent._

_"Second building on the right. The women's barracks are right behind. They will inform you of the routine. Oh, and on a personal note, Miller." he says, and her shoulders tense, probably expecting some sympathetic apology that didn't fix anything. "Give them hell." Miller's eyes are filled with relief, and perhaps a little gratitude, as she goes to her task. Calvin turns his attention to the new ones, prepared for the worst._

_There are two of them, decently built. One's a bit on the gangly side, and clearly not yet used to it, doesn't know where to put his weight. The other is average height, has wire-rimmed glasses that glint silver in the afternoon sunlight. Calvin blinks, weren't there supposed to be three? A cough pulls Calvin's gaze downward, a surprise. Even with the highest platforms he can find, he's always been the shortest in the group._

_There's a kid staring up at him. Not young, a kid. There's still baby fat on his cheeks and hope in his eyes. It unnerves Calvin, makes him forgo grilling them and sends them immediately to the barracks. The kid's yessir is too cheerful, bright. He trips and falls over his own feet on his journey there._

_Calvin sighs, turns towards his office. He's got a lot of work to do._

* * *

Peepers wakes up to the smell of tea, which is strange. He drinks tea sometimes, but he would never leave it unattended, and Hater doesn't know how to use a kettle, even if he tried. As soon as he can force his eye open he's appraising, looking for exits, blind spots, other useful information. 

His brain quiets a little when he recognizes a painting on the far wall. _That's in Zbornak's place._ he thinks dully, before the implications of that piece of knowledge sink in. _Why am I in her living room?_ he wonders, having placed himself in the squat, homey dwelling. 

"Hey, you're awake." says the woman herself, coming out of what he presumes is the kitchen with two mugs in hand. "How're you feeling?" she asks, taking the place next to him on the couch and handing him a mug, which he blearily accepts. 

"What do you mean?" Peepers asks as he takes a sip of the liquid, not completely up to speed. His mind goes back to the last available memory, Bloyd's diner, poking at the disgusting excuse for pie, and Zbornak saying....something. About a date? Yes, and it was an important one. An anniversary. 

"Oh." he says, once it hits him. His stomach sloshes, and he bites the edge of his tongue to keep the nausea at bay. 

"Yea." Sylvia says, not having anything much better. He doesn't fault her for it. It's awkward, no matter how you look at it. 

"I'll be fine." he responds automatically, taking another small sip, actually figuring out the flavor, English Breakfast. Sylvia scowls. 

"That's bullshit, Johnson, and you know it. You broke down just talking about it, you think you can attend a concert and be 'fine'?!" she snaps, and Peepers winces. That pulls her short, and she sighs. 

"Why are you so against people helping you?" she asks, and while he's considering answers like 'I don't wanna be a bother' or 'I don't need any', the truth falls out. 

"I don't think I deserve it." 

In a flash, Sylvia pulls his roughly up by the collar, nearly spilling the drink. Her eyes burn with something like anger, but not quite. 

"You, Calvin Johnson, are a stubborn, prideful, know-it-all with an attitude problem. Basically, an asshole. But you most certainly deserve to be happy, got it?" she says, and he nods frantically, if only to be let go. 

"What do you expect me to do, huh? Cancel my partner's birthday surprise just because I can't handle some lights and noise? I'll figure something out. Being a razor or something. I don't know." he huffs, peeved at her righteousness. It's not that simple in the real world. 

"You better be glad Wander ain't here to hear that." she says, shaking her head. "And I never said you had to cancel. Just can't do it alone." Sylvia says, reaching for his hand, which had started shaking. Again. Christ, he was a mess. 

"Calvin. Please let me help." she says, so soft and kind that it was clear to see how she and Wander got along so well. They both had hearts too big for one person. 

Peepers takes a deep breath, closes his eye, lets the butterflies settle. He contemplates, considers the potential of this. Considers the consequences. Finally, he settles on an answer. 

"Ok." he whispers, as if he's afraid, which in a way, he is. "I'll let you help. But Hater can not find out about this. Promise?" he says, holding out a pinky. Childish, but everyone who knows anything knows that children don't snitch. 

"Promise." she says, locking hers around his. They both nod, take sips of tea. Later, there will be strategy and discussion and plans, but for now? He drinks, he rests, he recovers. 

He feels safe. 


	35. Operation Atlas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mild mental illness fuckery, internalized ableism

Dr. Harold "Hater" Martinez, despite what some childhood best friends might say, does have some virtues. Like, at least two. Patience is not among them. Ever since the beginning of the month he's been buzzing, waiting for his birthday with eager anticipation. Ripov alone would make it worth his while, she had a lifetime of experience to draw on, but Peepers was just the icing on the metaphorical cake.

The guy managed to get him a limited edition t-shirt on a whim, and has a sort of flare for perfection that military training only enhanced. While it did contribute to most of their minor conflicts - "You can't just let the dishes sit like that, Hater!" - the  trait ensured that whatever he came up with would likely lead to tears of joy. 

Although, Hater has noticed something was off with Peepers lately. He'd been sort of evasive in the last week, more jittery than usual. He had appointments that he wouldn't tell Hater the specifics of, and his phone rarely left his person. 

Logically, it could be tied to his birthday, a surprise he didn't want to accidentally spoil. Except there were other things too, flinches and long looks into the distance, an isolation Hater found alarming. 

He knows Peepers' mental health is not strictly his business, and that bad days happen without reason, but it still felt off. While he could be reclusive about these things, Peepers had started to at least tell him they were happening, a small comment or holding on tighter to his hugs. 

Ironically, it was Peepers' own mediating influence that kept him from digging too far into this. If the roles were flipped, he would wait, gather more data. His confrontation would be gentle, but firm. Hater knew he couldn't replicate that entirely, but he could at least put it aside until after his birthday. If he was still acting weird then, Hater was calling an intervention. 

All the cool stuff in the world was pointless if Peepers wasn't happy. 

* * *

The morning of March 27th, Peepers wakes up to his alarm. He looks around his bedroom, expecting that something will be different, somehow.  The only anomaly is a pile of dirty laundry. He puts it in the hamper and walks into the bathroom. 

All through his morning routine, the shower, breakfast, brushed teeth, he waits for it to hit him. Waits to be pulled into grief like what he had in the hospital, the cloying despair and self hatred. 

He doesn't think burning his toast counts. 

By the time he gets to his car, he gives up on anticipating. It isn't particularly helpful, and Hater will almost certainly notice if his shoulders are tense. Instead, he goes over the plan. It has a certain simplistic elegance, Zbornak's signature. 

She's obtained two extra tickets to a sold-out show, through methods Peepers doesn't dare posit, and has recruited Ripov as assistance. They will just be two other attendees of the concert, having a good time. Unless Peepers gives them a signal, in which case Ripov will distract Hater and Zbornak - Sylvia - will extract him through one of the four preplanned exit routes. All he has to do is try not to have a flashback. 

Not that he's completely useless. He's been listening to this artist's discography, acclimating himself to the cacophony of harsh sounds. Ripov had banged pots both at places where the crowd was most likely to swell, and at other random intervals. She insists this is an appropriate approximation of the 'nonsense of civilians.' 

The knowing smile they share is almost enough to make it worth it. 

* * *

Hater arrives an hour later, shitty break room coffee in hand, and practically vibrating with excitement. A few wary interns and coworkers wish him a happy birthday as he passes, but they're all secondary to his true task. 

Peepers is already well into working. A pattern recognition software, one of his actually, runs dutifully on his screen. His eye follows each line, double checking the algorithm. Hater knows better than to feel hurt by now, his boyfriend doesn't trust anything on reputation alone, and he's certainly not above calling him out on his mistakes. 

"Morning." he greets, leaning against the cubicle and taking a gulp of coffee. He's mostly functional by now, but the caffeine is always a good pick-me-up. 

Peepers startles for a moment, an oddity that Hater puts with the rest of his evidence that something is up, but relaxes at the sight of him. 

"Good morning." he says, starting to turn back towards his screen. It's a trick, he knows this, but falls for it anyway. 

"Nothing else to say?" 

Peepers makes a big show of thinking about it, resting his hand on his chin and looking up at the spotted ceiling. 

"Hm. It's trash day on the even floors, did you set yours out?" 

"Yes. Anything else?" 

"It's the anniversary of the founding of the navy, the squids will like that." 

"Peepers." he deadpans, and he breaks out in a grin. 

"Happy Birthday, Hater." he says, placing a kiss on his cheek, a non-verbal apology for teasing him. Hater steals one from his lips before he pulls back, finding payback in his blush. 

"So," he says, drawing out the syllable dramatically. "What did you get me?" He knows he'll have to say it at least a half dozen more times before he'll acquiesce, so he might as well get started. 

"Your tact continues to astound me." he says dryly, but the lingering smile ruins any illusion of real annoyance. 

"Come on, cariño, just a hint?" he begs, all his pride abandoned. 

"Alright. One hint. You'll have to change out of those clothes." Peepers says, with a smirk so devious it sends Hater's brain careening into the gutter faster than a star orbiting a supermassive black hole.

Worst of all, he seems to know it. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you're evil?" he accuses, resisting the urge to kiss him senseless, work environment or not. 

"A few people. I suppose I don't always fight fair." he says, easily inserting an Infinity on High reference as he turns back to his work. 

Hater wonders if falling in love with someone over and over counts as a health risk. 

* * *

Forty-three. That's how many times Hater asks about his present. Between measurements, on breaks, during lunch, though never the same way twice, which takes a certain amount of creativity. Still, it's a relief when Peepers is finally able to hand him his ticket at the end of the day. 

"You got us seats at a Crushed Dreams of the Broken Lights concert? How?! They book way ahead, you'd have to have gotten these before we **met**." Hater says, clearly in awe, and Peepers basks in it. 

"I have my ways." he says, modesty forbidding him from bragging at length at the way he'd used every trick Mama had taught him about barter, the careful balance of apathy and confidence. But it shows in his face, the pride shining in his smile. 

"You are the best boyfriend in the world." he declares, bending down for a kiss. Peepers reaches up to meet him, stops just before they touch. 

"Only the world?" 

"Even you can not defeat my one true love: Batman." he says dramatically, and Peepers snorts. 

"Batman isn't real, you know." Hater looks offended, placing a hand on his chest like some aghast Southern belle.

"He's real to me, Peepers. He's real to me."

"That is literally not how it -" 

"Shhh. Feel the Batman in your heart. Imagine all the funding he could give us. All the projects we could do." In spite of himself, Peepers does. It is a glorious vision. 

"We could get better computers for our models." 

"Think bigger." 

"We could buy a new chromatograph." 

"Even bigger." 

"We could build radio telescopes. In Peru!"

"Now you're getting it. All this and more could be ours, if I was dating Batman." he says triumphantly, point proven. 

"Fine." he says, rolling his eye. " **If** Batman or Bruce Wayne mysteriously pops into existence, I will let you hustle-date him. For science." 

"That's why you're the best, Peeps." 

"Don't forget it."

~~~

It's a good thing Peepers left them plenty of time between the end of work and the opening act, because getting ready for a concert took a lot more effort than he anticipated. His own outfit was easy enough to manage, the Metallica shirt he picked up from the mall and dark jeans, but Hater seemed to have to pull out half of his closet to find his choice. 

"Should I go with the '06 tour shirt or the '09 shirt? Cause the '09 tour was my favorite, right after 'Heart to Hearth' came out, but it was a bad year for the band, with Justin leaving and all. Or maybe I should just go classic, 'Anchor Sludge' style." he says, holding up three t-shirts that look pretty much identical to Peepers. 

"Anchor Sludge sounds nice?" he says weakly, and thankfully Hater nods. 

"You're right. Got to show the fresh meat who's boss." he declares, pulling on the appropriate shirt. 

If only that were the end of it. 

There's also piercings ("Sterling or bronze?"), accessories ("Is a studded bracelet too cliché?"), and makeup from a little box Peepers has never seen before. It's almost elegant, the way he puts it on. Concealer and foundation, crimson liquid lipstick, mascara and bright green eyeshadow rimmed by liner, and he doesn't even hesitate to put the pencil all but in his eyes. He could never do something like that. Which is why it's such a shock when Hater sits him on the edge of the bathtub and says calmly. 

"Your turn." 

"What?" he balks, like some sort of startled chicken. 

"Come on babe, live a little! And before you protest too much, remember it's my birthday." he says, which is totally unfair. 

"Fine. But I'm going to look ridiculous." he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Just wait, ye of little faith." Hater says, and gets to work. 

First, he takes off Peepers' patch. Says it'll get in his way. Despite the fact that he trusts Hater to see it, at least in passing, he feels the disgust well up in his throat. Hater doesn't say anything, but he does trace each line of scar tissue gently with his fingers, places a kiss to the misshapen skin. It's stupid, but it helps all the same. 

Hater continues to trace patterns into his skin with his left hand as his right brushes powder on his eyelids, runs bristles over his eyelashes and draws quick, efficient lines across his face. When Peepers can open his eyes, he notices details on his partner's face he never has before. Usually when they're this close, they're kissing, so his mind is occupied. Sometimes they press their foreheads together when they cuddle, but the lighting leaves Hater's face naught but outlines. Now, he can see everything. 

He sees the edges of his tattoo, more pixel-like than vector, but it makes it more real, somehow. He sees a couple of blackheads even through the foundation, clustered at the end of his nose. He sees his eyebrows, thick lines of brown-black a start contrast to the white ink, and the wrinkles his concentration forms between them.  The best thing of it all is his smile, a thin line that upturns his whole appearance, makes it impossible for him to look scary. He's beautiful, not in the way on TV or in magazines, but in a way that's uniquely **Hater**. The kind that makes Peepers' heart squeeze tight and warm in his chest. 

"Whatcha looking at, handsome?" Hater asks, mirth crinkling laugh lines around his eyes. 

"You." he answers honestly, affection cloaking the word in a way that ought to be embarrassing, but wasn't. 

"Oh? Like what you see, do ya?" he asks, fluttering his eyelashes and his laughter caught in his nose. 

"I think you're the most gorgeous man I've ever met." Peepers states, with no teasing, no flirting. To him, it's an absolute fact of the universe. 

Somehow Hater, who flirts more than he works - and he works a lot - who has an ego the size of Sirius, who knows he's handsome and points it out constantly, isn't able to handle this level of adoration. His cheeks burn, this close Peepers can feel it, and he buries his head in his hands. 

"You can't just **say** something like that, Peepers." he groans, utterly flustered. It's a rare state for Hater, and one that Peepers enjoys immensely. He knows he's not suave or smooth at romantic things like Hater. He's an awkward nerd who's neutral face looks like he's about to kill a man. But sometimes, when he's utterly honest about what he feels, he's the one who earns blushes. 

"Funny, it looks like I just did." Hater glares at him through his fingers. 

"You are the worst. Absolutely terrible. Remind me why I love you again?" 

Peepers extracts his partner's face and presses a long, hard kiss to his lips, staining his own leftover red. 

"That'll do it." 

~~~

Parking isn't actually as terrible as it could be, especially since Peepers is used to walking. Merchandise stands pop up in regular intervals as they near the venue, a consistency he absorbs with approval. Peepers doubts he'll be seeing much in the way of order tonight, so he takes what he can get. 

Hater does start holding his hand when the crowd coagulates at the narrow entrance, so that's a plus. The loud thrum he hears doesn't sound like the CDs in the least, so he figures it's still the opening act. This is confirmed by Hater's loud scoff. 

"Really? They went with Bleeding Zombies as their open? Those guys sound like cats yowling on stage." 

Peepers refrains from pointing out that most metal music sounded like animals wailing to him, Crushed Dreams of the Broken Lights included. He does find their bass lines enjoyable though, very steady.

While he's musing on the value of metal to the music world, he almost misses the high whistle coming from his right. He turns to see Zbornak and Ripov waving with no attempt at subtlety. Though thankfully Hater's attention is occupied by a discussion with their neighbor on how really awful this opening act is. 

He makes an excuse about getting a drink before embarking on the quest to reach his allies through the unusually tall crowd. Shame burns low in his gut, he'd been so busy avoiding Hater's mind games that he'd all but forgotten the day. The attack. It's hard, living with the memories of Westley, but he didn't want to forget him. The kid deserved better than that. 

Eventually, he finds Sylvia, who actually does have a drink in a bottle, brand name covered with tape. 

"Where's Ripov?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes. 

"Nice to see you too. She's in position, two rows behind you guys." she says, pointing to a glob slightly behind Hater. "Operation still a go?" 

"Yes, thank you. I'll head back now. You remember the signal?" he says, demonstrating it just in case. She nods, but doesn't let him go. 

"What's up with you? You looked almost happy when y'all came in. Now you look miserable." 

And since she's doing this for him, spending money on the tickets, her evening condemned to this concert, all for his sake, he doesn't lie. 

"I'm mad at myself. I forgot about what happened. I was so focused on making everything perfect for Hater that it stopped seeming important. But it is. It's not fair to him to ignore it." 

Sylvia takes a moment to think before replying, a Wander-like look of confusion on her face. 

"Why are you mad at yourself for being happy? We came in case you needed us, but if you don't, that's not bad. Days are just numbers, Calvin. You can remember him on a better one, in a better way than making yourself sad. Don't you think **you** deserve that?" 

When she puts it like that, it does seem silly. Or illogical, at the very least. It doesn't make sense to punish himself for a good day, notwithstanding past events. Life is made for living, and the dead will have their day. It is not today, he decides. Not today. 

"I do. I deserve to be happy." he says, almost believing it. Trying his best to. Sylvia grins and punches his shoulder. 

"That's what I like that hear! Now head on back, before lover boy gets worried." she goads, elbowing his side and wiggling her eyebrows. 

"Yea, yea." he mutters as he shoves her back, blushing a little. "Thank you though. For being here. It...means a lot." 

"It's what friends are for, sap." she says, genuine but not above making fun of him. That's alright though. 

She's earned it. 

* * *

"Where's your drink?" Hater asks when his boyfriend finally returns, lacing their fingers together protectively. He'd been gone for a long time, and Hater was worried. 

"Oh, I forgot. Got a bit lost." he admits, looking sheepish. Something about the words are off, but he can't quite figure out why. 

"Did something happen? Did someone say something? Cause I will fight them." 

"My honor doesn't need defending at the moment." he says, squeezing his hand. 

"You're sure that you're ok though. Cause if you need to go, we can. I won't be mad or anything." A little disappointed, yea, but he could go to another concert. He doesn't ever want to be the reason Peepers is left in a bad place again. Not if he could have done something. 

"I'm sure I'm ok, and....I'll tell you if that changes." he promises, which is about as much as Hater can ask for. 

His lets his worries fade as the bands comes on stage, whooping and hollering with the rest of the fans, cheering as the music begins. He'll never get over how **real** being at a concert felt, the noisy edges of music and crowd, being hot and growing sore from singing and stomping. It's an adrenaline rush, and he's a junkie for it. 

It's clear when he looks over that Peepers has not gotten to that place yet, pressing his toes into the concrete just to try and see what's going on. Then he has an idea, sweeping his boyfriend into his arms, lifting him into the air. 

"What are you doing?!" he yelps, having to scream to make the words audible. 

"Getting you a better view! Just get on my shoulders, you'll be plenty high then!" 

"Are you sure about this?" 

"I bench twice your weight and you're not very big. I'll be fine!" 

Peepers seems to agree as he gets into place, Hater holding tight on his ankles so he wouldn't fall over. His shoes kick at his chest a few times, but Hater figures that's on him for not giving a warning. Finally he stops squirming and rests his hands on his hair.

"Better?" Hater asks, though he doesn't actually hear the response, because the song has reached a particularly loud part. His feels the beat tapped on his head, and fingers twisting his curls carefully with the guitar parts. Looks like someone was starting to have fun. He grins, taps his heel against the ground and enjoys feeling the concert through Peepers' actions. 

It's interesting, the difference in how they experience this. For Hater, who knows every note and sound, the regular up-down of the beat is far away, hidden under the smooth glide of the whole. Peepers doesn't do that. He unconsciously breaks the song into sections, quanta to be processed and reassembled. If this had been early in their relationship, he might have accused him of not being able to have fun, but now he knows better. This is just how Peepers thinks, living in an infinite fractal and drawing boxes. And yea, maybe every once in a while he has to be yanked out of Flatland and shown the whole picture, lest his boxes trap him, but he's not unaware of enjoying unknowable complexities. He's just as able to look at the stars and see their sprawling wonder as the thin lines in his chromatograph. But Peepers' first instinct when presented with the world was not to merely appreciate, but to understand. Which was its own kind of beautiful. 

The kind he's grateful he gets the chance to see. 

~~~

"Pretty awesome, huh?" Hater says as they mill towards the exit, ears still ringing from the last note, so loud it busted the amp. "I was expecting a lot of the new stuff, but there was some from Sludge and 'Blood Seal' too. Rocking album, and Nightmare Friday is **killer** live. I think that's where you twisted this thing." he says, pulling at a sloppy braid that falls apart under his fingers. He ruffles the rest of his hair to denature it. 

"Hey! I worked hard on those!" Peepers protests, puffing out his chest indignantly. 

"Aw, don't be sad. I'll let you redo them sometime. Heck, you might be able to do something with your hair. Getting pretty long there, soldier." he goads, earning an unimpressed glare. 

"You're lucky I love you." 

For a moment, Hater is frozen, because Peepers doesn't usually say he loves him. He shows it, in his worrying, his double checking of his work, making sure he drinks water at the gym. Hater knows the words don't come easily to him, so when he does say it, it means he really felt like he should. 

"I sure am." he says adoringly, for Peepers' love is a treasure he values more than gold, more than knowledge, more than music. 

"Flattery will get you nowhere." he says, despite the pleased expression and flush high on his cheeks. 

"Aw, not even a shirt? Cause my boyfriend mentioned this thing about changing." A smirk spreads across Peepers' face with the words, the kind that catches his lower half's attention. As does the rough tug at his collar, forcing him down to Peepers' level, the hot breath as he whispers. 

"Skip the shirt, and I'll show you." 

It's the easiest choice he's had to make all day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello faithful readers! thank you so much for bearing with me through this hiatus, it's been a turbulent time for me personally, and i had trouble writing these guys to my usual standard. i'm hoping - fingers crossed - that i'll be able to finish before fall classes start, though the best i can tentatively promise is that it won't be another several months before the next chapter. 
> 
> you guys are really the best and i'm so thankful for your patience and support. keep on rocking on! <33


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